


Sunrise on Sorgan

by TheHeartOfAMandalorian



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mandomera, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHeartOfAMandalorian/pseuds/TheHeartOfAMandalorian
Summary: Inspired by Manfie's incredible and captivating MandOmera series, The Man Under the Armour ❤ I am deeply enamored by her story and this is my Author's Love Letter to her ❤ Thank you for giving me the inspiration to write MandOmera 😭 (This will likely be a collection of fluffy shorts that are somewhat connected...I'm still writing The Heart of a Mandalorian Warrior too!!)
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), Din Djarin & Omera, Omera & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 124
Kudos: 76





	1. Sunrise on Sorgan

**Author's Note:**

> So I tried something different than the Heart of a Mandalorian Warrior series (don't worry, I'm still writing that one!!).

**Pairing** : Din × Omera - MandOmera ❤

 **Setting** : Sorgan, a couple weeks after the battle against the Klatooinian Raiders

 **Warnings** : Soft!Mando, fluff - 100% free-range, organic fluff.

 **Word Count** : ~1.6 K

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She wakes in her hut, air light and refreshed from the restful cool night. The gentle rays of a newborn day stream through thinner areas of the woven walls and around the edges of drawn curtains. 

She can hear Winta's feet pad on the wooden floor. 

A few small knocks sound on her bedroom door. 

"Momma?" her voice is quiet, trying not to wake Omera in case she wasn't already up for the day. 

A smile comes to her face, knowing all too well why her daughter is up so early.

She gets out of bed, stockings cushioning her feet from the cool floorboards as she goes to open her door. She cracks it to find an already dressed and energetic Winta peering up at her. 

"Good morning," Omera chuckles as Winta pushes the door open and gives her a tight hug.

"Can I play with the Mandalorian's boy, Momma? Please?" she pleads with big brown eyes.

"Winta, the sun has barely been risen for ten minutes. How about we eat first-meal to start the day, then we can see if they're awake?" she smooths her daughter's wild, sleep-mussed hair and Winta begrudgingly concedes, before shuffling her feet to sit on Omera's bed.

"Do you think they'll stay?" Winta asks, aimlessly picking pilled fibers from the worn bedsheets.

Omera brushes out her long, thick hair, considering what to say to her daughter. She wasn't certain of the Mandalorian's plans herself.

"That's up to the Mandalorian to decide, my love. But between you and me, I hope they stay too," she smiles at her daughter, hoping she's not giving her hope just for it to be stolen away the moment he leaves on his ship for good. 

She's honestly not sure who it will hurt more if he decides to move on.

The Mandalorian and his son have been with them a couple weeks now. He has been a huge help to the village by assisting with clean up from the battle, particularly hauling the AT-ST out of the north ponds with use of his starship, and also harvesting raw materials from the forest for rebuilding damaged huts. 

She's caught him glancing in her direction more than a few times to be coincidence while she harvests krill. At first, when she happened to catch him, he'd quickly avert his dark-glass gaze. But since the fire a few nights ago in celebration of finishing repairs on the last residence, he's been nodding instead. It makes her blush thinking of the night of the fire.

"Momma, are you almost ready?" Winta swings her feet impatiently from where she sits off the edge of the bed.

"Yes, my little krill-cruncher," she teases her daughter.

"I hate that nickname. I haven't squished krill since I was five," she furrows her brow. "I know how to harvest."

"You sure do, and you make me very proud," the mother smiles as she slips on her waterproofed boots.

"Harvesting is cool, but I want to travel the skies like the Mandalorian. Do you think he can teach me?" she perks right back up, pulling Omera along by the hand the moment she jumps off the bed.

"Winta," she giggles at her daughter's enthusiasm, but fearful of the ideas the newcomer is unintentionally putting in her daughter's head.

Both giggling they jaunt out the front door and into the new day.

"I don't think he can fly around here," Omera starts to explain to her excited daughter. 

They turn a corner and...

BAM!

Omera collides hard against him, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

He catches her in a strong embrace.

"You ok?" he asks, metal shining in the bright golden light.

"S-sorry Mr. Mandalorian, I was pulling momma along," Winta says sheepishly as Omera catches her breath. 

"It's ok," he then looks back at Omera, her hurried breaths momentarily condensing on his visor. He suddenly realizes he's still holding onto her, feeling her warmth even through all his armor and layers - reminding him of the night of the fire a few nights ago.

He clears his throat and lets her go, despite not wanting to.

"I apologize," Omera finally says, mentally kicking herself for not saying something sooner. She'd just been so winded and shocked, but she immediately misses his body heat as he steps back.

"Can I play with your son?" Winta asks, looking expectantly in the barn's direction.

"He's not awake yet, but I'm sure he wouldn't be upset if you woke him to play," the Mandalorian gives his permission.

"Thank you!" Winta proclaims giddily, unexpectedly running up to his side and giving him a quick hug.

He tenses up, not quite sure how to react. He nods his affirmation and grunts as she lets go.

"I'll feed him first-meal!" she shouts over her shoulder as she runs to go wake her playmate.

Omera cringes, hoping Winta didn't just wake half the village as well. She also hopes her daughter hadn't offended the Mandalorian by the display of affection. 

"Thank you," Omera looks to the beskar-clad man in front of her. "You didn't have to say yes." She smiles, a rosy blush coloring her cheekbones.

Din feels a heat bloom all over his face and down his neck and chest in response. He's glad to hide behind the _beskar'gam_ at the moment.

"She's good with him and he likes her. Free babysitting," he tries to make a joke. _Kind of?_

Omera laughs at his remark, making his chest swell with reassurance that she seemed to like it. He just didn't want to offend or say something stupid - she made words exceedingly difficult.

"Well it's a win-win for both of us it seems," Omera smiles, looking up into his dark glass. He's almost blinded by her bright smile in the morning light. It makes his heart beat faster, and suddenly he's self-conscious that maybe she can hear it in the quiet morning air. 

_What would it hurt if she knew the effect she had upon him?_ he ponders to himself.

"I can bring a platter to the barn so you can eat," she offers, studying the immaculately polished curves of his helmet. "If you'd like," she adds.

"Thank you," he nods. 

She reaches and sets a gentle hand upon his inner elbow, giving a firm nudge.

"You're more than welcome." Her face blushes furiously at her impulsive action and she withdraws her hand, chastising herself for being so forward and selfish.

But then the most surprising thing happens - _he_ reaches and gently grasps _her_ upper arm.

"I've been thinking," he cannot believe the words falling out of his mouth. He stops himself, trying to think better of it, but he's already started. He can't back out now.

"Yes?" Omera leans in, more curious as to what he has to say than she's ever been.

He takes a deep breath to calm his fluttering nerves. He's never felt like this around another before. It's like the adrenaline of a hunt, but multitudes stronger and mixed with a fullness in his chest and it's hard to breathe. His heart pounds hard beneath the beskar. 

_She must see it considering she's now looking there_ , he thinks to himself, only fueling his hotwired nerves. 

_She must also feel his shakiness_ , he psychs himself up further, looking at his hand upon her arm. He dare not withdraw his grasp out of the irrational fear it's the only thing grounding him at the moment.

He takes another deep breath.

"The other night," he forces out, voice shakier than he'd like.

She nods encouragingly. _She looks intrigued_ , he decides. _That must be good._

"At the fire," he continues.

A cosmos-turning smile breaks on her face.

"I wanted you to know that -" 

Suddenly, a group of giggling kids runs past, playing tag. Winta chases them with the little one in her arms, interrupting his thought.

"Be careful!" Omera shouts to the rambunctious group and laughs.

"We will!" Winta yells back.

They turn back to each other as the children's laughter decrescendos. She can tell the Mandalorian is shy about the subject. _Five hells, she's nervous too! Surely he can see that_ , she thinks.

He doesn't even bother to take another breath before he blurts it out:

"I enjoy your company," he huskily admits, coming out a bit more breathy than he'd like.

"Me too," she smiles.

 _Did he hear her correctly?_ _He must have a glitch in his directional sound amp...surely he didn't hear her right_ , he thinks.

But then she leans in and whispers underneath the lip of his helmet, "You're a good dancer."

His heart leaps at her approval of the other night.

She leans back, face flushed with her confession. "Perhaps we could find an excuse to do it again," she smiles shyly, looking down at her feet.

He has to remind himself to breathe. 

He curtly nods and eventually lets go of her arm, hoping he wasn't squeezing her too tightly.

She walks away with a beautiful smile.

"I'll bring first-meal to your barn," she says, more as a reminder to herself as her head soars in the puffy, early morning clouds.

He catches his breath as his mind races as fast as his pulse at the conversation that had just occurred.

He'd have to ask Cara for dancing lessons today.

‐-------------------------

**Author's Note:** This is my first-ever MandOmera story. I hope I did them justice (I just love them so much 😭). Thank you for reading ❤🥰


	2. Sundown on Sorgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 - a flashback to the night of the fire <3

**Pairing:** Din × Omera - MandOmera ❤

 **Setting:** Sorgan, a couple weeks after the battle against the Klatooinian Raiders. 

> ->The night of the fire alluded to in **Sunrise on Sorgan (Part One)**

**Warnings:** Soft!Mando, fluff - 100% free-range, organic fluff.

 **Word Count:** ~1.9K

  


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The firelight dances and so does the village.

It is a joyous occasion to celebrate: Earlier that day, the final visible scar of the battle had been mended as the last damaged hut was repaired. 

She watches him in admiration, his armor reflecting mysteriously as his stoic figure leans against the very pinewood and reed wall he helped rebuild. She can't help but steal every glance in his direction as she can - at least when she thinks no one else is looking. The music and drink have her barriers down.

But there's someone watching her alright. A certain, astute ex-shock trooper is onto her...and also onto _him_.

\-------------------

Winta's too distracted feeding berries to the Mandalorian's kid to notice, so she picks out another target for her plans.

"Hey kid," Cara grabs the attention of one of the village children sitting nearby. She still can't keep their names straight, but it's not like she was expected to be the mothering type.

"Y-yeah?" the small, blonde girl shyly replies, fidgeting with her skirts. 

"If you get Omera and the Mandalorian to dance together," she nods over to the two figures on the sidelines, "I'll teach you how to shoo- fight," she corrects herself at the last moment. The kid was far too young to hold a blaster... _probably_.

"Um ok!" she perks up, eyes wide with a smile lighting up her face.

"Hey wait! I wanna learn how to kick butt too!" Another kid from the small group chimes in. 

_This is even better, a kid for each of them_ , a wicked grin curls on her face as she takes a victory swig from the spotchka mug.

"Deal - now go hold up your ends of the bargain," she tosses her head to gesture them along.

"I'm gonna be such a warrior," the one kid punches excitedly at the air as they go to do her bidding.

\-----------------

As Omera catches a short figure coming at her from the corner of her eye, she immediately breaks her gaze from the handsome beskar visitor.

"Hey Helden," she smiles down at him, curious as to what he might want.

"Come dance," the boy grabs her by the hands and pulls her toward the festivities.

She can't help the surprised laughter that escapes her.

She glances back and catches the Mandalorian being coerced by sweet little Nillie. No one with a heart could say "no" to her. And by the reluctant gait and tilt of his helmet as he's led by the hand, she knows he hides a very big heart underneath that armor.

She almost cannot contain the gargantuan smile her face insists upon wearing.

Still holding her hands, Helden wildly shakes their arms, not in sync to the rhythm at all, but he earns points for enthusiasm. She laughs at his sudden interest in dancing...but then she starts to suspect…Nillie wasn't much into dancing either - both of them typically sat out such things in favor of critter-wrangling like Winta.

She looks in the direction where they'd been sitting.

 _Aha!_ She spots Cara nearby, smugly sipping her third (or fourth?) flagon of spotchka and giving a dramatic wink in her direction. 

_What did she have planned?_

"Mind if we join you?" sweet Nillie's meek voice sounds from behind.

Omera turns and is met by the most adorable sight: Her small hand in _his_ worn-leather gloved one, swaying the Mandalorian's arm to the tempo of the bass drums and wind instruments the village band plays. 

"Here, now you try dancing," Nillie grabs Omera's hand from Helden's and replaces it with the Mandalorian's.

Helden and Nillie vigorously nudge them closer together and neither can resist the cute kids. 

"Now dance!" they giggle and quickly retreat back to the sidelines to Cara who gives them both a high-five.

 _Yep, knew it_ , Omera thinks briefly before being immediately drawn to the situation at hand, literally.

She feels his smooth glove against her slightly calloused skin and she shyly looks up to his visor, swallowing some butterflies back down to rejoin the flock in her stomach.

"I suppose we can't disappoint them," she says with a shy smile, then feels a fool for having said anything at all, glancing down at her feet.

But his hand doesn't let go. 

She looks back up at his helm.

His visor reflects the crackling flames as he thinks. His blood is as hot and wild as the fire and his head as empty as the dark night sky into which the stray embers flicker. He can't think. He's befuddled.

He nods - the only thing he can manage at this moment.

She smiles, dimples adorning her beautiful face, and his heart stops for a moment. _Is he going to pass out?_

 _Haalur [breathe],_ he tells himself.

She gently sways their arms to the rhythm. He's tense, but gradually melts into her motions.

She reaches for his other hand and he even manages to meet her halfway. His nerves are quivering. _That's new_ , he thinks.

With deep brown eyes, she looks up at him and he feels a longing stir within his chest. He feels he _needs_ her proximity and a hot blush flushes over his entire body.

The instruments soon begin playing a slower, more sorrowful tune and arm-swaying no longer feels fitting. He doesn't know what in the blazing suns of Tatooine he's doing, but an urge to have her close overwhelms him and he slowly guides her toward him. He feels as though he's floating above watching himself as she comes closer - and _willingly_. She doesn't resist in the slightest and instead gives the most delightful giggle and smile.

He hadn't intended, but she now rests flush against his cuirass and he can feel the heat radiating from her as intense as her supernova smile.

He instinctively sways, well sort of. His leg was still a bit bum from the mudhorn and then he'd wrenched it again in the Klatooinian battle. But the gentle feeling of her weight soon distracts him from any discomfort.

"Is this ok?" he asks, words falling out before he realizes he spoke instead of thought them.

 _Di'kut_ _[idiot]_ , he mentally chastises himself.

"It is more than ok," she looks up into his visor, cheeks a warm shade of pink even in the firelight.

 _She approves? Did I hear her wrong?_ his brain runs laps in an effort to comprehend.

"Is it ok for you?" she hums, leaning back slightly in an effort to gauge his reaction, lovely eyes reaching to places he hadn't known existed until now. Until _her_. 

He nods his head once. 

She rests back against him. His heart is hammering against the beskar as if trying its best to reshape it. 

_Surely she can feel it,_ he thinks, an even deeper shade of red tinting his entire body as an embarrassment washes over him at losing his fight against staying composed. _She probably thinks I'm a nervous fool...and she wouldn't be wrong._

‐---------------

The couple flagons of spotchka earlier have loosened her inhibitions. She almost can't believe the feeling of resting against him, but he feels so good and he doesn't seem to mind. And she doesn't really care what the others think either - most have already had many more libations than her and are feeling even more unhindered.

She decides not to resist and leans into him a little more, testing the waters further, curious to see how deep she can venture.

He tenses.

"I'm sorry," she quickly backs up, feeling incredibly foolish and selfish for having overstepped a boundary.

"No," he slowly brings her back closer. "I-I don't mind," he reassures, not being able to help the stuttering his fumbling vocal cords barely manage.

An enamored laugh escapes her and heat rushes into her face. A weightlessness settles and his words nuture a confidence within her, nudging her ever closer. She leans back in, this time resting her head upon his cowl. And this time he gently melts and molds to her form instead of becoming rigid.

"Is this ok?" she asks for forgiveness instead of permission.

"Mmmmmm," she feels him nod as he almost purrs - she can hear it contentedly rumble deep within his chest. 

He fills her senses to the spilling point. She inhales his scent, which smells of warm evergreen, musk of worn leather and faintly, the oil of machinery. She also hears his heart, strong and thrice the rhythm of the band - and hers isn't far behind. She can feel his beskar against her, chiseled edges dangerously promising protection in their immortal form, but the breath and warmth reminds her, provides her proof of the mortal man beneath the layers of fabric and metal. A blush blooms vigorously at being so close and that he is allowing so. She feels incredibly honored and out of her league.

They softly sway despite not quite fitting the rhythm of the once-again lively music. But that doesn't matter. The world around falls away. He doesn't let go and her arms instinctively wrap tighter around his waist, earning a hitched breath but he quickly hums his approval and holds her tighter in response with arms wrapped around her shoulders in the chill night air. 

He doesn't have a kriffing clue what he's doing, but she doesn't seem to mind. He's decided he'd live tonight and let his walls down, something only she could persuade from and inspire in him.

They stay like that for what seems like a blink, but when they finally take in the world around them again, they find the music has ceased and most villagers have left the now dying fire.

"Momma," Winta appears, the Mandalorian's groggy boy in her arms and an equally sleepy look heavy on her face.

They break their embrace, both blushing furiously in front of their children. 

_Caught._

She feels childish for having let the night escape her as such.

"Hey sleepy eyes," Omera coos at her daughter as the Mandalorian gently takes his son from her small, tired form.

"Thank you for taking good care of him," he curtly nods, resting the boy against his shoulder.

Winta's eyes perk up, a flicker of pride managing to show through her drowsy vision and she grabs onto her mother's waist to hold her tired legs up.

Omera runs her hand over her daughter's hair.

Her chest flutters at how kind he is to her. _A natural father_ , she muses - but quickly shoos away that thought, somewhat embarrassed it even crossed her mind. 

"Only happy dreams," Omera smiles at him and his now-slumbering boy, bidding them a good sleep. Her and Winta turn to retreat to their home for what remains of the night. 

The Mandalorian nods. He would indeed be having the _happiest_ of dreams tonight...that is if he could fall asleep after the dream he had just lived.

‐---------------------

**Author's Note:** I hope it lives up to the first one 🙈 They had a bit more of a standing hug than I had intended but I couldn't resist. I wrote most of this half-asleep so it got a bit smooshier than originally planned 🙈 


	3. Sunshine on Sorgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame it on the small village, but it seems the Mandalorian and the beautiful krill farmer cannot stop running into one another.

She taps her knuckles against the doorframe to announce her presence as she gracefully balances the meal. There's no reply or noise from within, and she's certain he's busy with Cara, completing their usual morning perimeter check. 

"Hello?" she asks for good measure. 

When no response comes, she slowly sweeps aside the door covering and peeks in. Early morning sunlight gleams through the open window and onto the worn, dark floorboards - even though she knew he wasn't there, she's more than a little disappointed when there's no glint of his shining armor in sight.

She enters the barn she has walked into numerous times before, but now it holds an entirely different air since his arrival - feelings of excitement and invigorating possibilities brim to the rafters - all because of _him_. She glimpses his bed in the corner, blankets slightly wrinkled but laid back into position. The thought of him holding her close beneath those sheets strikes the flint in her mind, sparking a fiery heat in her face. She takes a calming breath, slightly ashamed, and pushes away the less-than-innocent musings. 

She gently sets the clay platter of fresh berries, assorted elk cheese, and sourdough bread on the wooden chair - just as she’s been doing with most of his meals. But this time, instead of the usual meadow flower tea, she includes a piping hot mug of medicinal herbal tea. She had noticed the way he'd favored his left leg the other night and figured he could use the pain-relieving and anti-inflammatory benefits of her special blend, a recipe of local herbs the elder medicine woman had taught her, along with a few ingredients purchased at the local market - therapeutic flora she had used years ago in her practice prior to settling on Sorgan.

Selfishly, she wants him feeling well so that a second dance is more likely...and also so he might join the village in a special tradition tonight. _Should she feel guilty for such intentions?_

She takes a deep breath and sighs. The freshly oiled scent of his nearby weapons case fills her thoughts with him again. Her mind wanders to the fire a few nights before: His inviting warmth, rugged scent, husky voice, and steady strength - all culminating into an intoxicating presence. She laughs to herself, thinking she needs to slow down or she’s going to start overheating. The cool waters of the krill ponds will serve as a tempering medium for her feverish recollections later, and she blushes for premeditating such a thing. But she couldn’t help herself and to be honest, she didn’t really want to. _What did it hurt?_

She looks around the barn to see what she can tidy and quickly spots her next task: Muddy towels in the corner - it was the aftermath of the Mandalorian’s boy finding a large mud puddle spawned by the recent thunderstorm. 

She chuckles to herself, gathering them in her arms and recalling the mud smears all over his helmet and armor as he wrangled the “little womp rat” - the endearing name with which he sometimes referred to his boy. She can imagine hearing his gruff yet fatherly voice. 

Floorboards creak under leathered steps accompanied by the tell-tale rustling of metal-on-fabric. Her attention is instantly drawn to the door where he stands.

“I was just leaving you first-meal,” she nods to the platter and blushes furiously, clinging the dried-mud-crusted towel against her pounding chest. _Waterwort_ , _the way he affected her was something she hadn’t felt in nearly a decade._ It felt like a lifetime ago since she had been so enamored - _since her husband_.

His visor pans to the food and then back to her with a polite nod. He continues over, coming closer and she notices the _very_ subtle limp remains. He stops in front of her.

“Thank you,” his smooth-gravelled voice hits a pleasant spot within her that sends gooseflesh up her spine.

“You’re very welcome,” she replies with a smile, clearly reflected in his visor. “Can I do or get anything else for you?” she doesn’t mean for it to sound desperate, but she thinks her winded breath isn’t doing her any favors right now.

“This is plenty,” he nods to the veritable buffet and then pans down to the soiled towels in her arms. “You don’t have to -” 

She smiles, automatically reaching to stall his arm, unable to help but take note of the warmth emanating and the lean muscle beneath.

“It’s my pleasure," she blushes, not meaning a double entendre as she loosens her fingertips. "It’s the least we can do after all you've done for our village." _Plus it gave her reason to return later with fresh linens._

She looks into his dark glass, almost picturing his eyes, which she imagines to be kind like his heart.

\-----------------------------------

As she withdraws her gentle touch and gaze, his heart pounds loud in his ears - he can barely hear her over it. All he can do is nod and let her do most of the talking.

Having her in _his_ quarters after what had occurred a couple nights ago and after _literally_ running into her less than a half hour ago...his mind is indeed floundering like a krill out of water, and his lungs too. 

_Haalur [breathe]_ , he reminds himself, feeling like a mudhorn is sitting on his chest. _Why do base functions such as breathing seem impossibly difficult around her?_ he grouses to himself. His chestplate seems tighter than usual and he's tempted to readjust it, but instead rests his hands together over his belt buckle to keep from fidgeting...or reaching out to touch her. He doesn't know why, but he intensely desires to hold her close again, like the other night. 

“Would you like that?” she asks, voice soft like a prairie wind. 

_Kriff, what was she asking?_ He’d gotten so lost in his thoughts and rushing pulse that he’d missed the first part of her question.

“It’s ok if you don’t want to join - it’s a silly tradition,” she turns a flushed pink, eyes flitting to the floor.

Oh for Manda’s _[Mandalorian afterlife]_ sake, he embarrassed her when it’s _him_ that should be embarrassed for not listening.

“Your traditions aren’t silly,” he attempts damage-control. The last thing he wanted her to feel was foolishness. In his short time here, he's quickly come to respect her culture and ways - he desperately wants her to know that, but eloquent words escape him.

Her kind brown eyes reach back up to him with a half-smile - eyes he knows he could never deny - not without tainting his _kar’ta [heart/soul]_ eternally.

“I’d enjoy accompanying you,” he nods, captivated by the intense smile he’d do anything to see. 

_Wait, what did I agree to?_ he thinks nervously, feeling his chest constrict.

“Your boy is of course welcome along too. The entire village will be participating,” she smiles.

“We look forward to it,” he pretends he knows what she’s talking about. If it involved the chance to spend time with Omera, he’d be willing to battle another mudhorn, despite the lingering ache in his ribs and leg from the first encounter.

“We’ll meet at the northern edge of town an hour before dusk tonight, and then we'll embark,” she beams, stealing his breath yet again. 

He nods and watches as she walks toward the doorway, her soft, dark hair cascading down to the small of her back - it isn't half-braided like she usually wears it, but it makes his heart flutter all the same. He briefly muses at how it might feel beneath his bare fingertips. 

"See you tonight," she gives one last _kar'ta_ -stealing smile before pulling the door covering and disappearing outside.

 _What_ did _I agree to?_ he thinks, stomach still in knots and heart in hyperdrive over her presence. He sighs and turns to the generous breakfast she had delivered - food that beats ration bars by a parsec.

He then removes his helmet, setting it on the windowsill, immediately grateful for the easier breath and cooler air. He looks out to the village. Winta and the kid join the others for lessons with the elders. 

_The little womp rat fits in well_ , he thinks as they disappear out of view - he briefly contemplates how he might make Sorgan work for the long-term, weighing his options. 

Notes of warm terran spice soon fill his nares, drawing him back to the present. He turns and reaches down to the sturdy clay mug that sits next to the platter on the chair. Wispy steam furls up into the cool morning air and he inhales the healing scent. Peering down into the hot liquid, he muses how it's nearly the color of her sunkissed amber skin. In fact, many things now remind him of her - he couldn't help but see her beauty reflected in the world around him. And how she still managed to make his heart falter and breath difficult in her absence - it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. But he didn't mind one bit; in fact, he never wanted the feeling to end.

\--------

She fills the laundering tub with fresh water from the well pump. The evergreen bar soap lathers despite the cool temperature and she scrubs on the metal washboard, cleansing the dirt from the first towel. She peers past the few huts on the periphery, out to the expanse of glimmering dew-adorned green meadow and wetland and then to the ancient dark-emerald woodland in the distance. 

She is giddy about tonight. About _him_.

The great migration was indeed underway as there had been sightings of _them_ a few villages north just yesterday - word travelled fast in town, and Jeb and Stoke had arrived with the news late last night after returning from one of their bi-weekly spotchka deliveries.

"Well, good morning," Cara enthusiastically strolls up, breaking Omera's thoughts. "Whatcha up to?" she asks, an impish grin carved on her face. She's been increasingly friendly over the past couple weeks and was always teasing the single mother about a certain beskar-clad single father. 

"Just assisting with chores," she smiles, but a vivid blush is already betraying her. She knows Cara isn't just stopping by for a simple weather-related chat.

The ex-shock trooper nods and hunkers down across from Omera, the tub between them.

"Looks like something's, or should I say _someone's_ , on your mind," she quirks her brows suggestively.

Omera glances around, making sure no one else is listening.

"Thank you," she semi-whispers, blushing and smiling brightly while looking down at the mass of towels as she scrubs, "for setting us up to dance the other night."

Cara huffs a laugh, "I haven't a clue what you mean." 

Omera splashes some murky water at her and she "heys" back, laughing, taking it all in good humor.

"Well, what happened _after_ the dance?" Cara adjusts her legs as if getting more comfortable to stay awhile and continue her interrogation.

Omera finishes the first towel, focusing her nervous energy on wringing out every last water drop she could possibly manage. 

" _What??_ " she coughs, scandal written all over her face.

"No, no not _that_ ," Omera blushes and giggles. "We parted ways. Winta and his boy were exhausted," she glances back up at Cara. "But I couldn't stop - haven't stopped thinking about him," she blushes even more vigorously, getting up to hang the towel on the clothing line to dry and trying her best to avoid further questioning. Although she actually enjoyed having someone to talk to about _him_.

"I'm not sure what goes on inside that bucket of his, but I'm going to venture out on a limb and say you're on his mind as well," she smirks.

"What makes you say that?" Omera's eyes flash up at her as she works on the next muddy towel.

"He's been less grumpy lately, and mostly because I see how you two exchange glances," an all-knowing grins sits smugly on her face.

Distracted, Omera scrapes her knuckles on the washboard and curses, shaking it out. It wasn't bleeding, just hurt.

_Great, now Cara really knows..._

Cara chuckles and continues, seeing as how she's struck a nerve, "And has he got it bad for you. The longing in that visor alone." 

"You really think so?" Omera blushes shyly, leaning slightly inward.

"Oh yeah," she dramatically nods, "I haven't known him for much longer than you, but he doesn't strike me as the type to give attention for no reason."

Omera huffs a dismissive laugh, but it comes out a bit more giddy than intended.

"Speaking of the Tin Man," the ex-Rebel's mischievous eyes shift to look behind Omera, and she swivels her head in return.

He nods at them as he approaches.

"Well, I have two kids waiting for combat fighting lessons," Cara jumps to her feet with ease.

Omera shoots her a worried look, but then decides it doesn't warrant asking.

"Nice dance moves the other night," she nudges the Mandalorian's shoulder playfully as she walks past.

He just lightly shakes his head at his compatriot's antics.

"Thank you for the meal," he circles to fill Cara's spot and looks down at her, "it was very good...as always."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she smiles up at him, squinting from how bright the sun shines off his armor.

"May I help?" he gestures at the basin, but before she can reply, he's already on his knees, shucking his gloves, and tucking them into his belt.

She didn't want to turn down his offer and offend his willingness. And also the sight of his bare hands would have her agreeing to just about anything.

"Sure," she smiles, swallowing the butterflies down. She grabs a towel from the muddied water and holds it out for him.

He reaches and their fingers touch. He inhales sharply and freezes for a moment, but then clears his throat as he takes it from her. She blushes at the brief, gentle yet electric contact.

She studies his hands as he works the towel against the corrugated metal, fascinated by the warm olive tone, thick rivulets of veins that spoke of manual labor, and also the relative smoothness of the skin, marred only by a couple large scars. She averts her eyes from staring, feeling incredibly rude for ogling. _Was she really that infatuated?_

"I don't mind," he breaks the silence with his honey-smooth voice.

"Hmmm?" Omera cocks her head, wondering what he means, his visor glimmering from the washwater's reflection.

"You can look," gestures with a nod to his wet hands. "I'm not all beskar," he huffs semi-humorously.

"You most definitely are not," she chuckles, blushing, then reprimanding herself for the awkward response. 

He wrings out the towel and Omera snatches the last one from the water.

He gets up to hang it on the line with the others and she notes he no longer favors his left leg. _The tea must have been a hit_ , she smiles to herself, thinking she'll include it at evening-meal as well.

\-------------------

"Thank you again for wanting to join us tonight," she smiles, as he turns back to find her scrubbing out the final cloth. 

"Is there anything I should bring?" he tries to clandestinely glean more information about tonight. He's in too deep now to ask outright.

"It won't take long to reach the best vantage point. A half-hour walk at most. But we usually pack snacks for the kids so they have something to do as we wait," she looks up at him, sweat glistening on her lovely brow from the quickly rising sun.

"I can bring some frogs," he tries to joke and immediately kicks himself for such an offhand comment.

She laughs, a joyous song to his weary soul, and his embarrassment quickly fades.

"Your boy _does_ have a palate for frogs," she chuckles, wiping her forehead with the back of her forearm. "I'll pack extra snacks. Winta would love to entertain him - if that's alright with you of course," her soft brown eyes cut right through his visor and his heart leaps.

He clears his throat. "He'd like that."

She wrings out the last towel and gets to her feet, dress drawn taut for a moment against her hip and emphasizing her figure. 

He averts his eyes and his _kar'ta [heart]_ thumps hard. He feels incredibly guilty for having taken notice of her curves, and shakes away the thoughts of her fingertips against his.

"Thank you for your help," she shyly smiles, lovely dimples punctuating her words.

He nods, mind again befuddled, and turns to go help with maintenance on the repulsorlift speeder. He didn't deserve the thanks - he hadn't done anything but wash one towel and distract her. He did, however, manage some more information about tonight, but what the exact occasion is, he still wasn't sure.

\--------

Omera finishes cleaning the basin and washboard and goes to check on Winta and the boy. Winta's been doing a great job of babysitting him, along with the other kids. Right now, it was nearly late-morning break in lessons from Elder Kelmina. She had cataracts and couldn't see too well and the kids took advantage and would often sneak off to play a bit earlier.

She bet she knew where to find them judging by the laughter.

She follows the giggles to Cara's quarters on the periphery of the village. Omera peeks around the corner.

"Ok keep your thumb out, you don't want to break it," the ex-shock trooper demonstrates with her own hand to little Nillie. 

Nillie imitates with enthusiasm.

"Good, now give me an uppercut," she commands, holding out her gloved hand. "Hard as you can."

These were not the lessons the kids were supposed to be getting, but Omera laughs at the sight of sweet little Nillie punching Cara's hand rather hard.

"Come on, you can do harder," she encourages and Nillie lets out a fierce little roar and connects with her hand. Cara gives an honest-looking "ow" and shakes out her hand. "You got an arm on you kid."

The children giggle and Winta has the kid in her lap as they all attentively watch the ex-Rebel. 

They seem to be fine so she leaves them to their shenanigans. If she didn't spy the group returning to actual lessons in an hour, she'd come to rouse them back to class.

She walks over to the north ponds that have yet to be started for the day. These were the last to be harvested given the recent events. Despite victory, it was still a difficult reminder of the terror the battle had brought.

With woven basket in hand, she lowers herself into the clear water as she's done hundreds and hundreds of times before, the cool water submerging her waterproofed boots. The turquoise-blue krill flit away from her legs and she stays still as they grow accustomed to her presence.

She quickly dips the basket down to a little school and lifts them swiftly out of the water.

 _Thirty-three_ , she estimates, having played this game with herself too many times.

She pivots to the edge and empties the pull into a collection basket.

She looks up, hoping to catch a glimpse of his beskar, but her heart drops slightly when no metallic glimmer is in sight.

She laughs at herself for being so preoccupied. Then she reprimands herself for becoming so attached - he might not even stay. And the more she let herself feel for him and think about him, would only make his eventual absence that much harder.

She continues pulling basketfuls of krill. But can't help but think of him. It was useless. 

So she allows her mind to wander, recalling that brief touch of her fingertips to his. It had been unforgettable. She laughs at herself. _For Maker's sake, how can a mere brushing of fingertips make her so bothered?_ But that's just the effect he had upon her. She wonders what he thought of her - if he thought of her like she thinks of him.

She glances up again, not expecting anyone, but then she sees _him_.

She waves and smiles and he returns her greeting with his simple signature nod that sends her skin to gooseflesh.

He's walking over. _I wonder what he's visiting for?_ she thinks as she lifts herself out of the pond.

\----------------

His pulse is singing in his ears as he watches her, drenched skirts clinging to her legs. 

He almost falls into a krill pond, but corrects himself at the last moment, slightly stumbling.

"Good work, buddy!" Cara loudly proclaims as she seemingly comes out of nowhere, clapping him on the back as she walks past, no doubt for a perimeter check. 

He shakes his head and decides to join the ex-Rebel, embarrassed he almost fell face-first in a krill pond and in front of Omera, no less. The outside world tended to fade away in the beautiful widow's presence.

Gaining on Cara, he nods again at Omera as he briskly walks past.

 _She must think I'm a fool_ , he internalizes. He blushes intensely, feeling very small inside his armor at the moment. He doesn't dare look back at Omera. But she had good humor and maybe he made her chuckle. Thinking of making her smile dampened the flare of embarrassment... _slightly_.

\--------

Omera watches them disappear and feels silly and small that she thought he was visiting her. Of course they were doing their mid-day routine forest perimeter sweep.

She looks down at the wriggling collection basket, deciding it's full enough to be worth starting the peeling process. 

_At least she helped his limp_ , she smiles to herself, having watched his strong, even gait as he faded through the trees. Then she remembers she still has tonight to look forward to and she almost can't wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat on this one for over a week...I'm not convinced, but maybe it's decent? I have a pt 4 and 5 already outlined. More is on the horizon <3 
> 
> Thanks for reading this attempt!


	4. Moonlight on Sorgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian and his boy join Omera, Winta, and the village for a meaningful tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this one got waaaaaaaay longer than intended...

Pairing: Din × Omera - MandOmera ❤

Setting: Sorgan, a couple weeks after the battle against the Klatooinian Raiders.

-> Inspired by Manfie's incredible The Man Under the Armour series. This is my author’s love letter to her and her amazing story. Also, the most undying thanks to Boggy for her unwavering support and encouragement. I love you both <3 *insert happy crying face*)

Warnings: Soft!Mando, fluff - 100% free-range, organic fluff.

><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><

They start the perimeter sweep, walking through the tall evergreens that reach high into the crystal blue above, as desiccated, rusty pine-needles crunch underfoot.

Cara's face wears a shit-eating grin.

 _Kriff, what's she up to?_ he nervously considers, returning his eyes to the path ahead. _Something tells him his compatriot is going to make this an interesting patrol._

"So, what were you two _lovebirds_ chatting about at the well earlier?" she asks in her somewhat crude, gossipy tone.

His _kar'ta [heart]_ leaps from how forward the ex-shock trooper can be. 

_Yep, she's going to make this interesting alright._

He sighs, trying his best to ignore the heat sweeping over his skin from her choice of words and the expectant stare he can feel penetrating his beskar. He just keeps walking.

"Huh? It's _that_ good you won't tell me?" scandal lights up her voice and he can practically feel the ripple her waggling brows produce as he keeps his eyes trained ahead, not daring to take the bait.

Deciding he really doesn't feel like sharing or feeding into her scuttlebutt, he instead picks up the pace and marches full-steam ahead … _and with ease_. 

_His leg oddly isn't sore today_ , he realizes as he proceeds to scan the area with his HUD - no signs of the Klatooinians or other trespassers are to be seen. He deeply inhales the pine-essenced air that persists through the filter. His lungs expand fully, and there's no protesting twinge or ache to be voiced from any of his ribs - _naasad_ [none]. Physically, he feels _really_ well for the first time in weeks - hells, even months.

His helmet audio picks up the foliage-dampened strikes of her light jog as she catches up from behind. 

"Oh come on, I only mean well, Tin Man," she joins his pace and nudges his side with a strong elbow. 

_Me'ven [huh]? No discomfort from that?_ he briefly muses before side-eyeing her, not sure why she's so interested in this topic. 

"You know the feelings between you and her are _quite_ mutual," she continues with a kinder smile than before. 

He stops dead in his tracks, as does his _kar'ta_. He's stunned. 

She skids to a stop and backtracks to face him, her hands on her hips. He stares at her.

_Did he hear her right? Or was this one of her ruses?_

"What?" he reflexively grunts at her, finally taking the bait, but he doesn't care. He's almost deafened by the blood rushing loud in his ears. 

"Isn't it obvious? She likes you, you beskar-skulled bantha," Cara smacks his shoulder hard, but amicably.

"What?" he can't believe what she's saying. A fiery blush rages beneath his armor, making it feel like the inside of a shuttlecraft left out in the hot suns of Tatooine. 

_Why is his body paralyzed at knowing this? Why did he care so much about what Omera thought? Surely Cara was mistaken._

"You heard me. I see how you two make googly eyes at each other...well, I can _imagine_ your googly eyes," she smirks, crossing her arms. 

His _kar'ta_ is racing - _Omera made "googly eyes" at him?_ _He can just imagine her soft brown eyes gazing in his direction..._

"Yeah, kinda like that," Cara laughs.

 _Har'chaak [damn it] - am I really that obvious?_

He cocks his head at her, not sure how to respond or how to hoist himself out of the crater he'd just dug himself into. 

_If he stands there long enough, maybe she'll just drop the subject?_ He doesn't know what to say.

"Look, if you want to talk about your feelings, I'm here," her face turns more sincere. "There's too much hate and despair in this galaxy. Hells, I've been dealt more than my fair share and something tells me you have too. Love is rare. That's all I'm saying," she gives him one last visor-piercing look and then turns to continue their route.

His _kar'ta_ stutters in his chest at the word: 

_Love._

_Is that what he was feeling? Is that why Omera made his body go haywire? And why he wanted to hold her?_

_Love?_

He hastens his pace to catch up and complete their perimeter check. He was suddenly even more nervous about tonight as his brain replays Cara's words over and over like a broken holocording. And there's no way he was up to asking her for dancing tips now - he's far too embarrassed.

\---------------------

Omera freshens up inside her washroom after hours in the Sorgan sun and ponds. Youth lessons have been done for over an hour, and Winta was playing with the Mandalorian's boy along with the others. She just hoped Cara's fight-lessons wouldn't spark any impromptu fist-fights.

She changes into one of her nicest dailyware dresses, the one with the brightest teal cowl woven in a beautiful fishtail pattern - a generous hand-me-down from Elder Kelmina who had weaved it in her younger days, years before cataracts had stolen her vision. She then brushes out her long hair, laughing to herself about Cara teaching the kids - for as much as the ex-rebel urges that she "doesn't do the kid thing", she sure does just fine, even if her activities might not be the most age-appropriate. 

With all the stubborn knots finally worked out, she begins to weave her dark tresses into an intricate half-braid for the ceremony tonight. She reaches into her nightstand producing krill pigment-dyed ribbons and incorporates the strands into a traditional lattice braid, intended to mimic the woven pattern used in making their krill-harvesting baskets. Smiling to herself, she hopes he'll notice and ask its meaning - any reason to hear his voice, she'd gladly take. Even if he didn't, she was just incredibly glad that he'd agreed to join. Her heart soars as she hums to herself for the first time in awhile - a sweet melody dripping in both sunny and saccharine notes. _He_ reminded her of it, and that fact made her face light up in the brightest smile.

Familiar small footsteps sound on the floorboards outside the room.

"Momma?" Winta's cheerful voice asks. 

Omera turns and finds her daughter, eyes wide as excitement rushes over her features.

" _They're_ here again?!" Winta exclaims enthusiastically, now spotting the stray ceremonial ribbons her mother holds.

A large grin forms on Omera's face as she nods - she hadn't yet told her daughter and the village kept the sightings a surprise until after lessons so the kids would focus. She quickly ties off her nearly finished braid.

"Come here, my excited little meadow mouse," Omera croons, ushering her closer.

"Momma, those names are embarrassing," she half-heartedly mopes and Omera buries a kiss onto the crown of her head. 

_She's growing up fast_ , she thinks, bittersweetly, for a moment as she begins brushing Winta's wind-and-play-tousled tangles loose. Then she notices the lack of a certain companion.

"Where's the Mandalorian's boy?" Omera's eyes flicker with sudden worry.

"Oh, the Mandalorian took him back for last-meal. Stiga fixed them up a _huge_ helping. We played really hard today and I could hear his stomach growling," she giggles, setting Omera at ease. 

She should know to trust her daughter, but she still can't help but be a mother and worry.

She weaves the teal through her daughter's thick hair as she eagerly chatters about her day, even including Cara's self-defense class. She was glad to hear that Cara had told them it was a "one-time thing", and not to use the skills to hurt your friends.

"Is the Mandalorian and his boy coming?" Winta suddenly changes the subject.

"Yes, I already invited them," she's glad her daughter is turned away to not see the pink blush no doubt on her cheeks. 

_Waterwort, just the mere mention of him made her a squirrely like a teen again._

"Awesome! I think they're both gonna love it!" she chortles happily. 

Omera hopes that's the case instead of the Mandalorian finding it primitive or a waste of time. Although, she knows he'd never say so as he's far too polite.

"There, all done," Omera announces as she finally ties off the lattice weave.

"Did you put in all eight ribbons?" Winta turns to look in the nightstand mirror.

"Hmmm, let me see: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight," she chuckles, tugging at her daughter's ear to punctuate her counting.

"Momma!" Winta grouses at her, but giggles in return.

She was indeed growing up fast.

\----------------

The scarlet sun grows heavy on the horizon, casting an array of oranges, pinks, purples as a final farewell until tomorrow. Winta is practically jumping up and down like a prairie rabbit by her side to get going - and earlier, she'd scarfed down last-meal faster than a Loth wolf.

Omera smiles and waves to the elders who can no longer endure the venture on foot as they situate themselves on the repulsorlift speeder. They proudly wear their teal woven hats instead of braids - the number of migrations they've witnessed are far too numerous to possibly fit into a braid.

Her eyes continue to scan for him and instead catch sight of the ex-rebel who stands guard near the group with three different weapons slung around her shoulder - no doubt from the Mandalorian's stockade. Cara had said she was staying behind to "keep an eye on things".

She scans the now empty village, but the Mandalorian and his boy aren't anywhere in sight.

"Do you think they forgot?" Winta looks up at her with worried eyes.

"I don't think so. They're probably just running late, my love," she pats her daughter's braided hair in reassurance. _She's not sure who she was trying to reassure more - herself or her daughter._

She glances around the crowd to see if he's snuck past and is already intermingled. But his shining armor is nowhere in sight.

_Maybe he decided not to come?_

Her heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of a pond as she turns her eyes back to the shadowed huts.

 _It was silly to invite him to such a traditional event_ , she thinks to herself.

Then she spots _him_ , armor still managing to catch the fading rays of the dying day. A flock of nightmoths flurry within her. 

"They're here!" her daughter cheers as she immediately breaks away and bounds over to retrieve her buddy. 

Omera watches as the Mandalorian's boy excitedly reaches out from his arms toward Winta. 

"May I watch him?" she asks politely, with hands fidgeting behind her back.

He nods and carefully hands her his son.

"Thank you in advance for wearing him out," he lowers himself more to their level. "And you, no more mud puddles," he sternly points half-heartedly at the little one who coos innocently from his friend's arms. 

Winta giggles and then quickly thanks him again before bounding off to the kid's group who collectively greet the little one.

He stands back to full height and his dark glass pans to meet her gaze, stealing her breath.

\-----------------

His heart flickers then stills for a moment as their eyes lock in the twilight. 

_Mesh'la_ _[beautiful]_ is the first word that catapults from the depths of his mind and strikes his _kar'ta_. 

He forces his weakened knees to walk, closing the mere stone's throw to meet her. Her hair, as is most of the village's, is adorned with nearly-glowing blue strands, the same vibrant color as the krill and spotchka they brew. It looks lovely, and he finds himself wanting to reach out and touch as he approaches within reach. He instead tucks his hands together.

"Thank you for joining us," she shyly smiles, eyes seemingly penetrating his dark glass.

"Thank you for inviting us," he nods. "Sorry we're a little late. He found a puddle again," he nods his helm toward the giggling children as he leans ever-so-slightly in her direction, feeling her gravitational pull upon his _kar'ta_ as she chuckles. Her laugh never failed to coax an all-too-rare smile from his lips.

"An excuse to do more laundry," she laughs, her dark sparkling eyes gazing up into his. 

_How did she always manage to find his eyes beneath the visor?_

His brain ceases to work and all words evaporate before they can even reach his tongue. 

_He's hopelessly smitten._

"The group is gonna leave you two in the dust," Cara suddenly steps up from behind and gestures her head to the crowd disappearing into the forest.

Omera laughs. 

"Shall we?" the kind krill farmer holds out a gentle hand and he pans down to the offering.

Cara nudges the Mandalorian toward the young widow, earning the ex-rebel an exasperated glare. But before he knows it, a calming hand is grasping his. He looks down.

It's _her_ hand. 

His eyes track upward to find lovely dimples carved deep into her face, along with a rouge that persists upon her cheeks, clearly visible despite the dusk ambience.

"Is this ok?" she asks, eyes falling down at their clasped hands and his visor follows. 

His hand in hers - _it might as well be his kar'ta she holds...it feels just as vulnerable...but in the most pleasant way imaginable,_ he decides.

He looks back up into her twinkling, dark eyes - eyes that hold more possibility than all the galaxy.

He nods and the smile it earns leaves him even more breathless. All words elude him at the moment. But he knew without a doubt, he never wanted to let her go.

\-------------

She leads him to follow the excited, chattering group. The scent of the pines in the rapidly cooling air beckons them.

She doesn't really know what to say and she can't believe she'd actually been bold enough to take his hand. But he doesn't seem to mind. 

"Your hair looks nice," his vocoder crackles with a shaky breath.

Glee spreads like wildfire throughout her chest and blooms upon her face so fervently that she can barely look at him. 

_He noticed._

"Have fun!" Cara loudly chimes from the edge of town as the ancient evergreens envelop them on either side of the path.

She turns and waves to the woman who now gives an unapologetically over-the-top thumbs up. It causes her cheeks to blush even more furiously.

"She's really something else," Omera half-laughs, embarrassed by the gesture, hoping her hand-holding partner doesn't read too much into it.

"Yes, she is," he huffs humorously, taking an unsteady breath. "So are you." 

She looks at him, and smiles, shocked by his words. _Did she hear him right?_

"Is that so?" she wants to encourage him, but isn't sure if she's pushing his comfort zone.

His visor stays trained on the group fifty or so meters ahead - the only sounds are of fallen evergreen needles shifting underfoot, crickets chirping, and the distant chatter of the village.

_Was she being too forward?_

"I'm sorry - I shouldn't be so unbridled," she feels incredibly foolish and she wants to hide deep within the darkness of the woods.

"Don't be," he reassures in his honeyed tone, gently squeezing her hand, "I'm glad to be in your company."

A breeze of relief and encouragement envelops her and fills her sails again.

"Me too," she smiles up at him. 

It's been so long since she felt like this - the exhilarating nervousness of a newfound romance, at least that's what she hoped that's what this would be. But she also tried to keep her expectations metered as she knows the Mandalorian might not stay for long. 

Now she can feel his shakiness and notices the way his cuirass swells a little more rapidly than usual - _was he nervous_? 

_Seven hells, she was nervous too! And all from hand-holding._

She couldn't believe the effect he had upon her. She had to try to maintain her composure. And luckily the group, along with Winta, was too busy chatting away to pay much attention to them.

Dusk soon fades to darkness, but rising moonlight shines, casting it's gentle pale glow through the evergreens' boughs and onto the trail. 

_It's a full moon in a nearly cloudless sky - perfect for tonight,_ she thinks to herself, excited for what lies ahead. 

She and the Mandalorian continue to trail behind the rest of the group, the comforting warmth of his hand managing through the leather. A smile persists upon her face at the innocent, yet intimate contact.

"It's only around a thirty-minute walk total," she glances to him. "How is your leg doing?" 

She almost immediately mentally kicks herself for the personal question.

\--------------

_Kriff, she knew about my leg? I thought I hid the limp fairly well._

"I apologize - I don't mean to intrude," she looks into his eyes.

"You're not intruding. Feels good today. Ribs too - first time in awhile," he admits. 

_Words are a little easier in the cloak of nightfall._

Her face lights up with a pleased grin. He must be saying something right to have earned such a captivating smile.

"I take it you liked the tea this morning," she gently squeezes his hand and his _kar'ta_ falters for a beat. A humored smile makes its way upon his lips.

"Is that why I feel so good? Slipping me special tea?" he figured the different tea this morning had something medicinal in it due to the bitter aftertaste.

"You make me sound like a meddler," she huffs, a blush just visible in the diffuse lighting upon her high cheekbones.

"You can meddle all you'd like," his veins rush like the river they're soon approaching. "Thank you."

She smiles and leans in a little closer, gripping his hand a little tighter as they walk - their arms are nearly pressed flush against one another. He can feel her healing warmth, which only amplifies his own.

He definitely must be doing something right, even if he can no longer think straight and his skin is no doubt redder than a Corellian rose.

\-----------

Winta grows tired about twenty minutes in and the boy finds his way back into the Mandalorian's arms. He's more than a little disappointed when Omera withdraws her hand from his so he can situate the little one to rest upon his cuirass. 

_You'd never know it's past your bedtime_ , he chuckles quietly to himself as the kid's great ears and vibrant eyes dart curiously around at the forest sounds.

He then watches as Winta reaches up into her hair.

"Here, since it's your first year, you need one," she explains looking up at the kid, as she works a length of ribbon out from the intricate pattern. 

He watches as the girl next reaches up and ties it around the little womp rat's wrist. His boy softly coos and intently studies the nearly-glowing bow with large eyes. The girl then looks up into his visor and frowns in thought. She again reaches up into her hair and works another teal strand loose.

"You need one to," she smiles up at him and he looks down upon her, a warmth spreading in his chest, much like what the child stirred within him. She grabs his free wrist without hesitation, which catches him off guard for a moment, but he quickly falls into ease as she secures the ribbon around it. 

"There," she nods, looking rather pleased and he feels the corners of his mouth tug upward - he can't recall the last time he's smiled so much. 

"Thank you," he nods, just managing the words as he finds his voice thick with emotion from the girl's kind gesture.

"You're welcome," Winta giggles shyly, then turns and scoots back to the kid's group.

He glances back to Omera who now wears the most vibrant smile he's seen yet - it shames the beauty and brightness of Sorgan's moon. 

\---------------

_He is so gentle with Winta_ , she thinks to herself as heavy feelings stir within her, churning strong like a paddle in the reeds and leaving her momentarily breathless.

_He is a natural father._

She feels a little guilty for thinking of him as such, but she couldn’t help it. She also couldn’t help but wonder if Winta would ever have a father-figure in her life again. 

He nurtured so many old and new thoughts in her mind - it was dizzying. 

_Perhaps she should just slow down and live in the moment, even if it spelled heartbreak down the road._

They begin walking once more. She desperately wants to hold his hand again with how it swings so lonely by his side as the other is preoccupied with caressing his sleepy son. She reminisces how good and right his hand had felt within hers earlier, but ultimately thinks better of it now that they're back within the group.

But then a gentle pressure nudges her fingers. 

She looks down. 

_His_ hand is now around hers.

"Is this ok?" his soft, husky tone implores, fingers intertwining like the ribbons in her hair.

She nods. 

_Waterwort, I hope he never lets go,_ she bashfully smiles to herself.

\---------------

The rest of the way goes by all too quickly.

Just holding hands has his mind completely befuddled. He can’t think straight. But the content smile upon her face reassures him that he’s doing ok, He glances down at the now-slumbering kid against against his cuirass, surprised that his heavily pounding hearthasn’t woken him.

"Here we are," she announces as the group turns between two massive, ornately-carved tree trunks depicting hooved animals of some sort. 

The kid stirs awake and coos in wonderment at the figures as they pass through.

They walk a couple dozen more meters and the edge of a natural ravine is soon revealed where the terran and pine needle path abruptly ends.

The previously boisterous group now falls quiet and they move to throw down blankets at the edge of the steep slope.

“I’m going to grab our stuff,” Omera releases his hand, which feels immensely empty at the loss of hers.

He watches as she goes to retrieve a couple blankets and snacks she'd packed for the evening from the repulsorlift speeder. 

He curtly nods and the child burbles to some of the passing villagers who smile and say things like, "Glad you could make it!" or "You're in for a treat."

The curiosity was now burning a hole in the back of his _buy'ce [helmet]._

_What was this tradition? No one in the village had said anything specific about the gathering all day._

He watches as she chooses her spot, seemingly a vantage point given how she glances down the slope. Satisfied, she unfurls the blankets. 

Out of the corner his eye, Winta bounds over and eagerly takes the snack pouch from Omera. She then approaches him and looks up into his helmet. Like her mother, she was adept at finding his eyes, and also like her mother, her dark brown eyes were equally undeniable. 

"Can I feed him?" Winta softly asks.

He glances down to the little one in his arms whose ears seem to perk at the mention of food despite having had a _very_ generous portion at dinner.

"Sure," he sets down the green bottomless pit who immediately waddles with an excited chirp over to his snack-buddy. "Just make sure he doesn't get too close to the edge," he warns.

"Yes, Mr. Mandalorian," she responds politely. She sits down on the blanket Omera had just prepared and sets the kid in her lap.

He chuckles to himself as the little womp rat greedily munches on what looks to be a fruit and nut mix.

_If an entire frog didn't choke him, a nut likely wouldn't either, right?_

"Would you like to sit?" Omera's soft voice beckons from behind. 

He turns and finds her moonlit form already seated on the blanket. He had only briefly noticed before, but the dress she wears is intricately woven around the neckline - it’s almost iridescent in the light of the moon.

He nods slowly while all his thoughts are instantly distracted as he lowers himself down beside her - a little closer than intended, but he can't bring himself to move any farther away. He can already feel her heat penetrating through his thick _kute [flight suit]._

"Aren't you curious what we're doing out here?" she asks in a humored, hushed voice.

_Wait, she'd never actually explained?_

"I am _very_ curious," he admits softly with a half-laugh, partially because he'd been trying so hard not to sound like a fool all day and expose his perceived lack of active-listening capabilities. 

She chuckles and kind eyes peer into his visor, making it again difficult to _haalur [breathe]._ Her eyes then fall down to the ravine below as she begins to explain.

"It is the time of the White Woodland Elk migration. Legend has it that they hold the spirits of those who have passed before us,” she smiles, tucking a stray hair behind her ear before continuing. “They visit every year, bringing good luck to the krill harvest," she chuckles quietly, "Well, they also happen to eat invasive weeds in the area that can take over the native ones needed for the krill to thrive," she further explains. She clearly appreciates both the tradition and science behind it.

He could listen to her talk for hours. The nectar-smooth tone of her voice and the movement of her soft lips and the pride she clearly has for her village. His blood starts thumping hard and he has to reel himself back from completely losing his sense of self like earlier in the barn.

"Look," Winta whispers wide-eyed and points down into the ancient pines below. His vision follows along.

Everything is still. 

Their pale figures pass like silent ghosts, elegant long legs with sure-footing. Some with great antlers donning dozens of points, each marking a season they've seen. 

The village is breathless. He finds himself in awe. Their white coats eerily glow under the moonlight.

Soft, nearly imperceptible hoofbeats barely register in his directional sound amplifier. He switches on his HUD and scans in the direction from which they come.

 _There must be close to a hundred or more in the herd_ \- at least with what he can make out with use of the HUD. He switches it off to appreciate the natural beauty. The child coos loudly in Winta’s arms, dark wondrous eyes watching the procession of large white creatures below.

Omera gently nudges his shoulder.

"Do you see that one, by the large stump?" she points and he follows to find a buck that stands still, staring up at the group upon the ridge.

He nods and she continues.

"He had a snare around his front leg last year and was trailing behind the rest of the herd. Caben and Riya managed to rope him and work the trap loose. You can see the healed scar above his left front hoof," she whispers and then grins. "I think he's either saying 'thank you' or 'I got my eye on you'," she chuckles softly.

"He's lucky to have met such kind people," he quietly replies, eyes now panning to her.

She smiles widely, eyes now meeting his. She shyly looks back to the beautiful creatures and then gently leans against his shoulder.

"Is this ok?" she asks, turning again to gaze into his visor.

He swallows hard and nods as his heart thumps feverishly.

_It was more than ok._

Almost instinctively, his arm wraps around her shoulders and holds her a little closer as they watch the elk continue their graceful yearly journey through the woods below. He feels incredibly special to have been invited to such a meaningful tradition. 

\--------------

With the last of the herd now out of sight, the group slowly starts packing up. He helps roll up the blankets and even lift some of the elders and tired kids, Winta and his son included, onto the repulsorlift for the return trip.

The blind elder smiles at him and holds his hand as he helps her onto the lift. She then turns and reaches to his _beskaryc kar’ta_ , pressing her labor-weathered hand there.

“Follow where it leads,” she says with wise, moon-like eyes peering into his. She then turns seats herself with the others.

_Follow where it leads? What did that mean?_

“Time for our trip back?” Omera comes up beside him, a smile that tugs on his very heartstrings.

He nods and the lift starts on its steady pace back down the path.

Omera and him trail behind again, their hands again finding companionship within one another. He feels as though he's living the most lovely, surreal dream. If it is, he never wants to wake.

A couple minutes in, she suddenly falls forward, breaking him from his lightheaded musings, but he catches her, holding her close.

"Thanks," her breath momentarily condenses on his visor in the brisk midnight air. She then hisses at her foot which rests near the culprit - a large exposed tree root.

"Are you ok?" his pulse surges at the thought of her being in pain.

"I just stubbed a -," she starts, but before she can finish, he has her in his arms, legs draped over one arm and her back supported by the other. 

\--------------

The Mandalorian insists on carrying her the rest of the way despite it just being a crunched toe, which is entirely overkill, but she can't complain. Thankfully, no one else from the group fuses over her as they're far enough ahead and likely too tired to notice. Truth be told, she'd take any excuse to be in his strong embrace and wrap her arms around the back of his neck. 

While he effortlessly carries her as though she's as light as a feather, the rhythmic brushing of his beskar against his flight suit and steady footsteps nearly lull her to sleep. She drinks his warmth in the cool night air. 

"Thank you," she says softly, looking into his twinkling dark glass.

\-------------

He momentarily meets her eyes, trying his best to not go weak in the knees at this particularly critical moment when he’s carrying her. His _kar'ta_ sputters under her gentle gaze. 

"I owe you for the tea," he replies, trying to spin it as a debt. _He honestly didn't mind - hells, who was he kidding? He enjoyed carrying her close._

"I might need to bring you some more tomorrow morning after carrying me all this way," her dimples appear again. 

"Believe it or not, you're much easier to carry than the kid. Especially when he's restless and coated in mud," he huffs humorously. The comparison coaxes one of the lyrical laughs for which he now lives to hear.

"Well, I am _definitely_ content," she purrs underneath the rim of his helmet.

"Mmmmmm," he replies. His chest constricts and his blood again is coursing like the nearby river. He knows she must feel it - the effect she has upon his _kar'ta -_ a pull like a moon upon an ocean.

_Follow where it leads -_ the words of the elder play in his mind’s ear. 

He looks down to Omera in his arms. 

\---------------

They soon make it back to the village.

Winta and the kid are fast asleep, but stir as soon as the lift comes to a halt.

He notices some grins from the villagers in the moonlight as he approaches with Omera in his arms. 

"You can set me down," she says kindly, dark, starlit eyes gazing into his.

He clears his throat.

"Of course," he gently sets her down to her feet. "Are you sure you're ok?"

Her hand slides down and rests upon his _beskaryc kar'ta [Iron Heart, ie, the oblong hexagonal symbol in the middle of his chestplate]._ Her eyes follow down where her hand rests. 

_She must feel it now_ , _the effect she has upon him_ , he thinks as a scarlet fever burns upon his skin.

"Momma are you ok?" Winta comes over from the lift, carrying his son.

"Just knocked my toes against a root," she breaks away from him as her daughter comes up, shifting her weight to the foot in question as proof. 

Winta's worry fades into a smile and then she turns to him. 

"Thanks for letting us play," she holds up the sleepy little womp rat for him to take.

"Thank you for watching him," he nods to her.

"You're welcome," she shyly smiles. Without warning, she leans in and hugs his waist. "Thank you for taking care of my momma." She looks up and then lets go, quickly returning to Omera's side. His _kar'ta_ feels fuller and brighter than the moon that hangs in the sky.

"Time for bed, my sleepy girl?" she looks down upon her yawning daughter who nods.

Omera's eyes come up to meet his.

"Are you sure your foot is ok?" he asks. He still wanted to make sure she was ok.

"It's perfect thanks to you," she smiles. "But you can walk us back if you'd like." 

He nods. 

They turn to head to their hut, partially to ensure her foot is indeed walkable and partially as an excuse to spend more time with her.

\----------------

She feels like the highest stars that hang in the inky black sky tonight, bright and elated that he cared so much.

As soon as they reach the threshold, a sleepy Winta bids her mumbled goodnight before stumbling off into her room, leaving only Omera, him, and his sleeping boy.

“Well, that trip back was better than a dance - I didn’t even have to move a muscle,” she teases lightheartedly.

He nods his head as a light chuckle escapes him. She adored making him laugh.

She leans closer.

"But I'd still like that dance," she says in a quiet, low voice, smiling sheepishly, unsure if she's being too forward, but she desperately wants to plan another reason to see him.

\--------------

His _kar'ta_ flips at her admission.

"I'd like that too," he manages, voice only breaking once. "Perhaps tomorrow?" he adds, not sure if he sounds too desperate, too eager.

She looks up into his visor.

"Sounds perfect," she smiles, a smile that he'd gladly do anything to see. 

The little one burbles in his sleep and they both chuckle.

"Well, I'll let you get some rest...and take it easy on that foot," he replies, turning to leave although he doesn't want to.

"Will do - I have to be ready for our dance tomorrow," she blushes.

He smiles as his pulse sings at the promise of tomorrow.

"Only good dreams," she bids him a goodnight. 

He nods as she slowly pulls the door covering and looks into his eyes one more time - a look that steals the _haal [breath]_ from his lungs.

\--------------

He returns to the barn as Cara nods and raises a flagon of spotchka from where she sits on her porch. 

"I'm taking it was a good night?" she whisper-shouts, but sort of fails at the whispering part. 

He shakes his head at her antics.

"We'll talk tomorrow," she adds just before he slips into the barn. 

He chuckles to himself at Cara's enthusiasm. _Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing to get her perspective_ , he muses.

He tenderly lays the sleeping kid in his crib as moonlight spills through the open window and embraces the room. His large ears twitch slightly and eyes move beneath their lids - he can't help but find the kid endearing and wonder of what he must be dreaming. 

"Only good dreams," he repeats Omera's goodnight to the child, a soft smile upon his face beneath his visor.

He then glances to the teal ribbon on the kid's wrist, and then to the one on his.

 _Sorgan is starting to feel like more than a resting point._ In his _kar’ta_ , it is starting to feel like _yaim [home]_. Perhaps he should _follow where it leads_.

\---------------------------

 **Author's Note:** I'm not convinced with this one either. I hope it doesn't disappoint too badly 😭 

><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><

 **Bonus Outtake (** Angsty inner-thoughts from Din that I cut from the perimeter check scene - it got a bit too dramatic and long and tangential and corny. But I spent time on it 😭 so here it is anyway **):**

_But no one could ever feel anything for him - could they? A bounty hunter whose heart is as cold and impenetrable as his beskar? At least he tried to keep it that way...the kid sure proved him an utter failure in that department._

_Even if perhaps he was capable of love or some similar form of attachment, a critical fact remained: He'd never be worthy of its reciprocation - no, not with all the cruelty he had perpetuated in the universe with his own two hands. Brutality he justified as a means to stay alive in his youth with Xi'an, Qin, and Ran and later on with The Guild to keep his Covert fed. He had even sometimes found pleasure in his dealings. He sometimes enjoyed it. He imagined the thrill a better high than Spice at the time. Although these thoughts and actions now make him ill, they will still forever stain his kar'ta [soul]._

_And yet, part of him still couldn't help but desperately hope to atone for some of his sins, that one day he might be deserving of happiness. As it stands, he was an imposter who the village looked upon as some kind of hero. He was no hero. Sure, he had the shining armor, but that didn't make him noble - no, far from it. The armor he wore represented the greatest sin of his life - a reminder he would wear to his grave. Even though the kid seemed to forgive him, he himself never would._

_So how could he ever be worthy of another's love? Particularly Omera's love?_

His mind tries desperately to sort out all the feelings and information.

Then he stumbles on the other fact that he couldn't deny or dismiss: _His kar'ta was irrevocably magnetized to Omera - it had been from day one. She made him feel things he hadn't known possible._

_And that his feelings might not be one-sided? It made his knees weak and kar'ta soar._

_Like the kid, she made him want to be a better person. And for them, he'd try his best._

He cannot change his past.

But he can change his future _._

In that moment, he decides he will be the best man he can be for the kid, Omera, and the village, even if he's not yet deserving of their acceptance and kindness.


	5. Darkness on Sorgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Din and Omera make a routine delivery in town, except it doesn't turn out to be so routine.
> 
> Warnings: Injuries/blood, death, medical procedures (nothing too graphic).

"Thanks for joining me last-minute," she breaks the silence, gazing over at him from her weaving as the repulsorlift speeder lazily glides along the wooded path. 

He nods, heart-thumping hard against his beskar at their aloneness and her vibrant gaze. 

Caben had somehow thrown out his back and asked if he and Omera could make the spotchka delivery in his place - of course he was more than happy to help. And although it was hard for him to outrightly admit, he was especially happy to provide assistance if it involved Omera. His _kar'ta_ is undeniably drawn to her like a newborn seedling to sunlight.

He watches safely behind dark glass as she refocuses on her task, her lovely brow furrowed in concentration on what must be a critical part of the basket. Entranced, his eyes drink in her shining dark hair and the vivid teal of her dress against her tawny skin - her breathtaking form is highlighted by the sun filtering through the evergreens, which tower above like ancient guardians. 

As if there's a magnetic attraction upon his beskar, he feels the pull to join her side and hold her close like the night before. It had felt so right with her against him and in his arms, like _jate'kara_ [destiny]. But she looks so concentrated and he doesn't want to disturb her progress, so he shakes away the fuzzy feelings and thoughts, sighing and grounding himself back within his sturdy beskar.

"This is probably boring for you," she lightly chuckles, glancing momentarily at him then back at her hands which continue their ministrations.

"No - it's nice actually," he replies. What he really wants to say is _'anything with you is worth doing'_. "It's nice to just sit." 

_'It's nice to just sit?' That's the only thing I could think to say? Di'kut,_ he internally scolds himself.

She laughs, donning the brightest smile, and his spirits instantly lift.

"You deserve some relaxation - you're always helping out around the village," her captivating eyes twinkle at him.

He huffs a half-laugh, "I'm getting soft." He feels as though he's already lost some strength with multiple days in a row lacking much physical labor. 

She shakes her head in amiable disagreement.

"Carrying me around last night _more_ than proved your strength," she grins, her eyes glimmering and dark in contrast to the bold matte rose that warms her cheekbones.

His stomach knots and heart jumps at her mention of last night. 

"You're light," he dismisses.

"You're strong," she persists, then chuckles. "That's why you get to offload the spotchka barrels."

He gives her a jesting tilt of his helmet. 

"I thought I was just coming along to look tough," he teases, getting caught up in her playful mood.

She laughs, pausing her progress and setting the basket to her lap.

"You think you look tough, huh?" she quirks a brow, which acts as a trigger, releasing butterflies that flurry madly from his stomach and into his ribcage.

He humorously cocks his helm again and shrugs his shoulders. A blush burns hot over his skin.

"Well, you _are_ tough...and also handsome," she quickly averts her gaze at the last word, looking back down and grabbing at her basket. A raging blush colors her face.

 _Did he hear her right?_ His chest constricts and he doesn't know how to respond or even if he should. A blush that rivals the red hues of a Sorgan sunset creeps over his skin and he's very thankful to be hidden in his armor at this moment.

"I'm sorry if I offended you - I just...," she starts, clearly embarrassed.

"You're _mesh'la_ ," he blurts before thinking it over.

 _It's out - I can't take it back,_ he decides, heart clamoring in his throat.

She continues to blush, mouth opening in mid-sentence and eyebrows furrowed, no doubt questioning the novel word.

He clears his voice.

"Beautiful's what it means," he leaves no ambiguity. _She deserves to know._

She smiles brightly and cheeks turn even brighter, like the color of fresh Corellian rose petals. 

_Manda, did I really just say that out loud?_ he thinks, shyly averting his gaze, pulse pounding in his ears.

"Is that your language?" she asks, eyes sparkling in the foliage-filtered sun. 

He nods, " _Mando'a_." 

"It's beautiful... _mesh'la_ ," she enunciates with a sunny smile. "I'd love to learn more if that's ok."

" _Elek_ \- yes," he drunkenly nods, veins filled with her intoxicating attention. He'd gladly teach her every last word he knows.

She smiles triumphantly.

" _Elek_ ," she repeats, making him blush at the sound of his language on her tongue.

" _Jate_ \- good," he praises with the largest hidden smile.

She laughs, "'Yes', 'beautiful', and 'good' are all important things to know in another language."

He chuckles too, feeling weightless from the uplifting smile and kindness she permeates, warm and nourishing like the Sorgan sun. His eyes settle on her basket as she fidgets with it.

"Perhaps you can teach me something in return?" he suggests, feeling more confident after the _Mando’a_ lesson.

"What might that be?" she eyes him in consideration, intrigued and as if trying to read his mind.

"Weaving," he points to the partially-completed basket in her lap.

"Hmmm," she smiles, "seems more than a fair trade."

She carefully stands upward on the moving lift with supplies bundled in her arms. Gracefully, she joins his side, seating herself and leaning against his arm. While she sorts the supplies beside herself and some upon her lap. His heart pounds erratically at her proximity and he desperately tries to calm it - he hadn't expected her to necessarily come closer and certainly not _this_ close, but he isn't one to complain. To be honest, he wants to pull her into his lap to close any remaining distance between them, but drags the decidedly selfish thought down into the recesses of his mind.

"Are you sure you want to learn?" she asks, gazing into his visor.

He nods, " _Elek_."

She smiles brightly and begins explaining the basic pattern, holding the basket closer to him and her arm presses even more firmly into his - he can feel her warmth. She then demonstrates a couple passes of the reed, his eyes intently watching her skilled hands navigate the repetitive motions with practiced ease. He could watch her for hours and never grow bored.

"Want to try?" she asks, face now impossibly close to his, separated only by a wisp of evergreen air and his visor. He studies her beautifully dark eyes in the ambient sunshine and the way her dark lashes brush her brow bone. His eyes sweep over her face, committing each freckle to memory, like constellations in the night sky - constellations that point to _yaim_ [home].

He swallows nervously. _Haalur_ [breathe], he reminds himself.

"That's ok if you don't -," she casts her gaze down to her lap.

He realizes he's taken too long to reply.

"I would love to try," he nods, and her face lights up, spiking his blood with her infectious kindness. He removes his gloves for the delicate work and grasps the loose end of reed she'd already threaded in the basket in his dominant hand.

"Like this?" he proceeds to somewhat clumsily alternate the horizontal strand with a couple vertical ones, snugging it tight against the previous row - it was quite a simple task, but one made harder by the jittery nerves in her presence. 

" _Elek_ ," she beams, again stirring the butterflies in his stomach into a flurry.

He continues another pass around the basket, finding it could be quite relaxing if not for Omera pressing so close as she coaches, making his pulse sing vibrantly in his veins. 

"You're doing great, but may I show you a better technique?" she gently offers.

He nods.

Her hands fall over his bare ones and he shudders at the gentle sensation of her skin on his.

"I'm sorry, was that inappropriate?" she shies away her hands, looking worried and foolish.

"It's ok…I just - I just haven't had a lot of physical contact," he admits breathlessly, feeling embarrassed at his reaction and that he'd just overshared.

 _Manda, why am I so awkward?_ he laments his inexperience, but craves her all the more.

"I can demonstrate if it's more comfortable," she offers, a caring smile upon her lips.

He wants her to know it's ok to touch him; in fact, he wants her to know that he desires it more than anything. He reaches to hold her strong yet delicate hand in a vote of confidence.

"Show me how you'd like - I really don't mind," his husky voice implores and his stomach flops as their skin meets.

She smiles brightly and nods. Her hands cautiously fall back over his to guide, and this time he's prepared to bite back the gasp when her warm hands envelop his. He’s almost in utter disbelief of what's happening.

"You'll separate these spokes with this hand," she positions his slightly shaky fingers to do as she explains. "Then set the reed through," she guides his other hand down. "Repeat, leading the way through the spokes with your other hand - it sets a more efficient pace."

Despite sputtering nerves from the intoxicating touch lingering over his hands, he soon finishes a layer with her technique. 

" _Jate_ ," she praises with a proud smile.

He chuckles as a surreal feeling washes over him - to hear her praise him in _Mando'a_ is something he'd never considered, but oh does it ever make his attraction to her that much stronger and irresistible.

" _V-vor'e..._ thank you," he manages to stutter. 

"You're welcome," she purrs next to his helmet with a _kar’ta_ -stealing smile.

He feels lightheaded and limbs heavy- he swallows his lovesick heart back into place.

"Do you want to keep going with that one? I can start a new one," she asks.

"Sure," he replies. _Weaving gave his nervous energy somewhere to go._

She grabs extra reed from the supply she'd set near and repositions even closer against him, making his _kar'ta_ bloom heavy and full like a summer blossom.

They both continue weaving, and he soon runs out of length. But before he can say anything, Omera leans even closer to splice another length of reed with quick precision. Her face and his helmet are not much more than a hair's width apart, and once she's done with the extension, she gazes into his eyes. 

_How can she always find my eyes through the visor?_ he asks himself, bewildered.

He starts to lean in, to rest his forehead against hers.

"Hey Omera!" a jovial voice shouts and she immediately turns away before any physical contact is made.

Instinctively his hand hovers near his blaster.

"Reena! Oh my goodness - you gave me a start!" Omera chirps with a hand over her chest to a woman nearby and he eases, seeing as it's a friend. 

_We already made it to the edge of town,_ he finally realizes, swallowing his thumping heart back into place as she chats with the cheery townsperson. He swiftly slips on his gloves.

"Sorry dear - it's just so good to see you!" the happy acquaintance gleams.

"It's great to see you too!" she chuckles, shuffling the weaving off her lap. She gets up and over to the speeder's controls, slowing it to a halt. "And how have you been?" she asks as she maneuvers over the side to the ground to join the friend.

"And who is your handsome escort?" the older, grey-haired woman winks at him and he blushes at her lack of subtlety.

Omera chuckles, tucking her loose hair behind an ear.

"You can call me 'Mando'," he rises up and jumps down from the lift to Omera's side. 

"You can call me 'Reena'," the woman smiles as she approaches, holding her arms out. "And we do hugs around here."

She pulls him in for an embrace, and his body tenses, mind going haywire at the overly friendly display of a welcome. Yet he quickly finds himself melting into the infectiously happy older woman, looking over at Omera who holds an embarrassed hand over her flushed face as she mouths a 'sorry'.

"And a strong Mandalorian you are," the filterless woman squeezes his biceps and then pats his cuirass. "I heard what you did for Omera's village - it was quite noble."

He doesn't know how to respond.

"What are you doing out here?" Omera asks, he suspects to draw her smothering attention away from him.

"I was just picking berries for the tavern," she points to a basket full of ripe red fruit up along the path. "Which reminds me, I should get along to start prepping the pie for the evening meal. Well, it was very lovely meeting you, Mando, and nice seeing you again, Omera," she gleefully winks again, turning to continue down the path. 

"See you later, Reena!" Omera calls after her.

“Stop by for some pie later!” she plucks her basketful of berry bounty from the ground and waves a farewell before hobbling back into town.

Omera turns to him with a sheepish grin.

"Sorry for her... enthusiasm," she chuckles.

"She's a strong hugger," he half-laughs.

"She's something else alright," she huffs, shaking her head in amusement. “Well, shall we?”

He nods, and walks around to restart the repulsorlift. 

They walk the rest of the relatively short way into town alongside the lazy-paced speeder and the huts start to appear through the trees. The town seems eerily quiet compared to when he'd visited a couple times before. He puts his hand in front of Omera to halt her.

"Something seems off," his husky voice warns. 

She looks ahead for a beat.

"You're right - I feel it too." 

He scans the area with his HUD. There are people inside their huts and storefronts, which isn't odd, but the lack of anyone outside is. But it’s the cantina that really sends the warning lights blaring in his head: There are heat signatures of people on the ground and a group of four others pacing and waving around what appear to be weapons.

"What's going on? What do you see?" she half-whispers, holding a hand to her chest.

He tunes his directional sound amplifier to the area.

"...credits and five liters of spotchka to go - that's all we're askin'. We wouldn't want to start killin' your loyal patrons, now would we boys?" one of the figures says and the others in his gang all chuckle and nod. He doesn't catch the full conversation, but it’s plenty obvious these aren’t nice guys.

"I-I have to g-get the key for the till," the barkeep stutters nervously.

"Mando?" Omera worriedly asks.

"It's a robbery at the tavern," he turns to her, shutting off the HUD on his vambrace.

"What?! Right now?" she gasps. 

"Stay out of sight and stay low - I'm going to diffuse it," he draws his blaster, adrenaline already coursing.

"Maybe they'll just leave," she grabs his wrist.

He turns and looks down at her grip and then back to her dark, worried eyes.

_He feels it's his duty to intervene - this is Omera’s town - her friends live here - and the tavern is their biggest spotchka buyer, the financial security for the village._

"Something tells me they aren't going to leave without innocent bloodshed or all of the credits - I'd like to prevent that," he says calmly and confidently.

She gazes into his eyes, her own pleading him to be safe and grounding his fighting spirit for a moment. She then nods and lets go.

"Just stay hidden and low to the ground," he reminds, not liking the idea of leaving her alone one bit, but it's the safest option to keep her from potential crossfire. He activates his HUD again and turns to take cover behind a nearby hut. He peers around the corner, immediately scouting for points of entry into the tavern.

The front entrance is too obvious and civilians are most concentrated there - that was a no-go.

 _I could try to pick them off from a window...but I left my Amban sniper rifle back in the barn and the blaster isn’t as good at long-range,_ he thinks to himself. He continues scanning the tavern for a better solution when his eyes catch onto what appears to be the kitchen supply entry. There's only one heat signature in this area and the entrance would be less-expected. It’s the best option with what little time he has - the thieves are growing impatient.

“Do you not speak Basic? I said, hand over the credits!” his sound amplifier picks up the thieves' voices again. 

Mando stealthily runs over to the rear of the tavern, keeping a low profile, and enters through the cloth door cover with blaster drawn at the sole heat signature.

“Mando! Thank the Maker you’re here,” Omera's friend, Reena, whisper-shouts and he lowers his weapon.

“Stay down,” he gestures the older woman to stay put.

“There’s four of ‘em,” she confirms. “Tsevia is keeping them off, but they’re growing impatient.”

He nods, assuming Tsevia is the barkeep who wouldn’t open the till from his earlier observation. He turns to the large dining room and scans through the fabric covering the entrance, taking note of each bandit’s position. He slowly and carefully continues, blaster at the ready.

He calculates each one’s position one last time before parting the cloth covering and storming through the doorway.

“Get down!” Mando orders the barkeep who doesn’t need to be told twice as he instantly huddles underneath the serving counter.

“Well look at what we have here boys - a real Mandalorian!” the greasy leader aims his blaster and smugly strokes his beard with his freehand.

“Leave,” Mando asserts, voice gruff and lacking any patience. 

“Or what? I suppose you’ll take on all of us?” the crook chortles and his cohorts cackle with blasters aimed.

“You can leave warm, or you can leave cold,” he repeats the terms with more specificity. 

The leader and his posse laugh even more gutturally this time. 

"We ain't leavin' until we get what's our's," he watches as the grip on the leader's blaster shifts ever so slightly.

“I guess it’s cold,” Mando shrugs and fires the first shot at the head thief's hand, disarming him and sending him curling over, cursing and holding his maimed limb.

“Don’t just stand there, get’m!” he hisses at his invalid compatriots.

Mando jumps from over the counter and shoots another down, dodging the first few rounds of blaster fire. 

The remaining two continue to fire their weapons, but have terrible aim and only manage to hit his beskar-protected areas. He storms up to them, grabbing the blaster of one and twisting his hands against its natural position and shoots the blaster from the other's hand. The man whose wrist crunches under Mando's grip finally drops his weapon, crying out in pain. Mando knocks him out with a single punch to the face, sending the crook careening to the floorboards.

The other disarmed bandit comes behind him and he turns just in time to take him head-on. The larger man gets a couple punches to his unarmored abdomen, and attempts to hold him in a headlock. Although winded, Mando breaks loose and swiftly knocks the man over the head with the blaster’s handle. The man must have an exceptionally hard head because the blow merely elicits a smile, followed by a brutal headbutt, which makes Mando stumble backwards a few steps from the sheer force of it. 

He decides he's had enough dancing around and shoots the robber square in the chest. The large man grunts and falls limp to the floor. But as he hits the wooden planks, a sharp bite catches his side. 

He turns and finds the leader standing right behind him. 

“Let’s see who leaves here cold now,” his greasy face laughs. 

Mando unceremoniously shoots him down and he slumps to the ground. 

“Anyone else?” he gruffs, scanning around, having defeated all of the bandits. There appear to be no other casualties in sight.

People start to slowly emerge from under their tables and chairs. A single slow clap starts, followed by more as the patrons voice their gratitude. Mando holsters his blaster and nods at the small, grateful crowd. 

_What did that crook mean when he said “let’s see who leaves here cold now”?_ he muses, suddenly feeling light-headed. _The bandit hadn’t gotten him that good, had he?_

"Mando!" Omera’s voice yelps.

_She didn't stay outside._

He looks up to find her looking at his side, eyes agape in horror.

He glances down to where her eyes fall, but the floorboards of the cantina suddenly grow closer and sounds grow more distant.

"Mando!" 

He feels her hand on his side.

"Mando, stay wi-"

Everything fades to nothing.

\----------------------

"Get Nyma now," Omera shouts to the barkeep who jumps to rush in errand as she keeps her hand pressed firmly along his right ribcage, over the wound.

She needs the healer's assistance - the Mandalorian needs medical attention. 

She hadn't officially practiced since before Winta, working as a pediatric nurse with orphaned and maimed children as the result of the Galactic Civil War. The small underground hospital she'd worked often employed herbal remedies due to supply shortages of standard pharmaceuticals. In terms of adult patients, she remembered enough having patched up her fair share of New Republic soldiers - and it was like riding a speeder bike, she fell into the rhythm.

"Mando!" she moves his helmeted head back and forth to jostle him awake, "Mando, can you hear me?"

But no reply comes - he's decidedly unconscious. It's difficult to fully assess his neurological status given his helmet needs to remain.

She feels for a carotid pulse through the fabric on his neck in an attempt to maintain his modesty - it's barely palpable and sluggish, but there. 

She looks back down to the wound on his side.

 _He's not bleeding that much - why did he pass out and why is his pulse so weak?_ she frantically tries to figure out what's happening.

.

.

.

Then it hits her.

_Poison._

_The blade was likely dipped in a toxin - it's the only good explanation for his symptoms._

She gingerly lifts her hand, making sure he isn't bleeding too rapidly, and quickly locates the body of the man who'd stabbed him. She immediately spots the bloodied knife nearby, picking it up to examine. Traces of light purple powder dust the hilt, causing her chest to clench - she carefully smells to confirm her worst suspicions.

 _Cryptberry powder_ \- her blood runs icy.

It's deadly when dosed right, but the fact Mando's still alive means he hadn't received a sufficient amount and she feels partially relieved for that, but she'd need to keep a very close eye on him. The most worrisome effects were paralysis of the diaphragm and then the heart, which would lead to death. In theory, a stimulant could help neutralize the progression and there are a few herbal remedies with that effect that should be available in town if needed. Yet she knows it's still a critical next few hours.

She tries to keep her mind on the positive. Instead of applying pressure again on the wound, she lets it bleed in hopes some of the more concentrated toxin at the entry wound will be flushed out. He's still breathing, but it's slow and shallow.

“Mando,” she caresses his helm’s cheek, thinking of how fast everything can change in a blink - how he’d been just fine earlier, weaving a basket with her of all things. 

“Omera,” Nyma’s voice sounds over her shoulder.

“He’s been stabbed with a knife laced in cryptberry - he still has a pulse, but it’s weak,” she bites back as much emotion as she can. The horror of losing her husband races through her mind - and she cannot go through losing someone she cares about again. She just can't.

“Let’s move him to my office,” the doctor quickly decides. "Hexa, Coz, help me move the patient," she orders two of the larger, stronger townsfolk, who oblige without hesitation. 

"Good thinking to let him bleed - it will flush some of the more concentrated poison out," Nyma reassures, and Omera feels better for the course of action or rather lack thereof.

They shuffle over the terran path through town to her practice.

"He's holding stable," Omera announces as she takes his radial pulse and Nyma nods.

They quickly approach her hut and doctor jogs ahead, sweeping aside the door covering.

"Lay him on the table," she directs firmly. 

Omera closely follows as the two men maneuver through the doorway and set him on the examination bed in the middle of the main room.

"Thank you," Nyma dismisses the helpers, moving to scrounge up the needed supplies from shelves and drawers.

"He saved the town a big loss - do all you can, Doc," Hexa grumbles and Coz nods in agreement before they duck out the front.

Nyma gets to work, pulling up a small table to set her tools upon and Omera rounds to assist in any way possible and prevent any overt breaches of his _Way_.

“He follows a strict Creed - his helmet must remain,” Omera explains, knowing how important it is to him.

“Well, his chest and abdominal armor needs to come off - I need to irrigate as much residual poison out of the wound as possible and stitch him up,” Nyma grouses, continuing to sort out her supplies.

Omera hopes this isn’t a violation, but he needs proper treatment - and arguing with stubborn Nyma was always pointless.

She nods, “I’ll remove it.” Taking a calming breath, she reaches and fumbles with the mounting points, eventually disengaging to lift away the surprisingly warm and lightweight metal.

Once Omera clears it and sets to another side table, the doctor promptly moves in and commences her work, cutting open a slightly larger area in his flightsuit and vest with shears to gain better access. 

"Fill that large irrigation syringe with sterile water from that basin," the physician points.

Omera quickly completes the task, trying to stay objective and suppressing agonizing emotions that claw behind her eyes and in her gut. 

“You’re going to need to monitor him closely - make sure he keeps breathing. Cryptberry isn’t some mild toxin - the next six hours will be critical,” Nyma bluntly reminds her as she finishes thoroughly flushing the wound, his crimson blood staining the trickling water that she catches with a cloth.

“I’ll stay with him,” she nods. 

Nyma cleans the area in preparation for stitches and Omera continues handing over supplies as requested to hasten the process. 

After the doctor applies a liberal amount of local herbal antibiotic paste, she expertly runs stitches through his flesh, closing the muscle-deep wound along his bottom two ribs. Omera monitors his respirations and pulse which remain slow and weak, but thankfully stable. She notes his skin still feels warm as she retracts her fingers from his wrist.

Nyma finally ties off the final stitch, snipping the biofiber. 

"Can you finish dressing the wound?" she asks, "I should help clean up the thieves at the tavern." 

_At least two of them appeared dead,_ Omera thinks - she briefly wonders what will happen to the survivors.

"Yes, of course," Omera nods and goes to grab the gauze and surgical tape to start working.

“I’ll send word back to your village that you’ll be spending the night,” the physician shares, wiping the blood from her hands in a wash basin. "He's in no shape for the trek back."

“Nyma - thank you,” Omera feels the tears well in her eyes, looking up from Mando's side.

The woman nods with a worried smile - she gives one last look at her patient before turning out the door with her medic bag and pulling the covering closed behind her. 

Omera regroups for a moment, then gently places gauze over the stitches and tapes it in place, running her fingers gently over the perimeter to ensure the tape adheres. 

"Mando," she exhales with a heavy gut full of guilt, feeling this had all been her fault. If only she hadn't allowed him to come with her into town because of her selfish infatuation. She also thinks that if he hadn't been with, she might have unknowingly walked into a blaster-fight. 

She then pulls up a wooden chair and sits next to him. She grasps his gloved hand, willing him to be ok, watching and hanging onto every slow breath that proves he's still alive, and praying to everything she believes in that the next one isn't his last. She feels his slow and weak but steady pulse beneath her fingertips as she grips his hand more tightly in hers.

"I...we can't lose you," she implores him, tears welling in her eyes at his still form, not being able to deny her own feelings and all he's done for the village and the town. 

If they'd had bacta, he'd perhaps have been healed enough to journey back tonight. But it's far too expensive for their simple Outer Rim planet. All she can do is wait like Nyma said - the next few hours are critical. 

Omera stays with him, keeping her hand in his, watching to make sure his chest continues to rise and fall and that his heart is still beating. She hums to him the tune of the song they had first danced to just a handful of nights before, reminiscing how alive he made her feel and how very alive he had been. But now he just lays so still, seemingly in limbo between this life and the next - and it eviscerates her, but she refuses to lose hope.

After a few tense hours, his respirations and pulse gradually grow stronger and rate more normal, which dramatically lifts her spirits. She speaks to him the only name she knows him by and attempts a sternal rub to rouse him, but he still doesn't wake; however, the relief that washes over her from just the improvement in his vitals finally allows sleep's heavy cloak to fall upon her.

\----------------------

He wakes - his side aches and he feels a warm pressure against his arm and a warmth within his hand which startles him, prompting him to look down.

Familiar dark hair spreads over his arm.

"Omera?" his pulse skyrockets at her proximity - the pull on his wound sends the events prior crashing back into memory. "Where are we?" he glances around, but doesn't dare sit up as the room seems to spin.

"Hmmmm?" she groggily mumbles, then straightens in her seat with an embarrassed flush to her face. "Mando, oh thank the heavens! How are you feeling?” she grips his hand tighter, eyes wide and relieved.

“Half-dead,” he speaks the truth. He feels like he can barely move, limbs feel like lead.

“The knife you were stabbed with was laced with cryptberry," she divulges. 

_That explains it - he's lucky he didn't succumb._

As his mind clears a little more, he stares at her, bewildered by her sleep-mussed hair, her hand in his, and the residual warmth still upon his arm. _At least part of his lightheadedness and weakness is attributable to the remnant toxin in his blood, right?_

"I'm sorry - I needed to make sure you were ok so I stayed with you. I’ll give you some privacy," she shifts in her chair to leave. “The village already knows we are spending the night here.”

He gently grabs her arm - her head turns and her eyes fall to where his hand meets her skin.

"Stay, please," his voice is raw - his heart implores her.

She softly smiles, eyes full of yearning. Yet, she looks into his dark glass as if she's uncertain what he said.

"Only if you want to," he elaborates, not wanting to pressure her.

She smiles sweetly and looks into his visor.

“Are you sure that isn’t the cryptberry talking?” she quirks a brow.

“Even if it is, I agree with it,” he replies, gazing up into her shining dark eyes.

She smiles, lifts her hair over her shoulder and sits back down.

He feels her warmth near him, as genuine and as real as he's ever felt another. She reaches to his hand again and he promptly accepts. 

"We had to remove your cuirass to gain better access to your wound - it’s over on the dresser," she breaks the silence, "I made sure your helmet and the majority of your undersuit remained untouched - I can repair the damage."

 _She had made sure his Creed was kept intact?_ He cannot begin to thank her enough for her kindness and respect. 

" _Vor'e_ \- thank you," his husky voice fills the air between them. She holds his hand tighter and her brow furrows.

"You must be tired - I should let you go to rest," he backtracks, suddenly aware it's dark outside - _he didn't want to pressure her into staying out of pity._

"I need to keep an eye on you - doctor's orders," she leans in closer and his heart stutters. "Besides, you're the one who needs rest."

_He can't argue - the way the room still wavered is proof of that._

"I'm sorry our dance will be delayed," he half-chuckles, stifled by the pull on his ribs. "I heard the song from the night before in a dream."

She blushes and eyes light up, "You did?" 

He nods.

"Well, our next dance is something I greatly look forward to," she tenderly rests a hand upon his bandaged wound, her fingertips grazing around the periphery as she carefully peels the tape to check underneath. His breath nearly hitches not from any pain, but from the gentle contact.

“Omera?” he asks, voice deep from within his chest.

“Yes?” she replies softly, laying the bandage back down.

As the beskar walls around his _kar'ta_ are completely eroded away by his undeniable feelings for her, he guides her hand to rest over his fluttering, fragile heart.

“ _Vor’e [thank you]_ ,” he means it from the depths of his soul. 

Tears gleam in her beautiful eyes and she nods in recognition. He instinctively reaches and brushes a stray tear trickling down her cheek, then caresses her lovely face.

 _She means everything to me_ , he thinks as stinging tears prick his eyes.

" _Vor'e_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I was not convinced with this one, but I hope it's not too disappointing! 
> 
> \-----------------------
> 
> Chapter 6: Starlight on Sorgan should be out by the end of November!
> 
> **Sneak Peek:**
> 
> Omera's eyes dance wildly over the nearly countless raised scars upon his torso - most are small and some are quite large, speaking of significant injury. Sure she had known he lived a rough life, but nothing prepared her for this - seeing the physical evidence, proving just how much physical abuse he's endured. Overwhelmed, her heart absolutely aches at the sight and tears threaten her eyes.
> 
>  _Had he ever known a kind touch before her?_ The thought settles heavy and deep on her diaphragm, making it hard to breathe. 
> 
> She can't help as her fingers migrate from the periphery of the bandage to trace a rather large scar over his heart.
> 
> _How did something penetrate his chest plate?_


	6. Daybreak on Sorgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omera helps Mando heal.

He awakens, head still fuzzy, and it takes him a couple beats to gather his whereabouts. The rafters above soon trigger a domino effect and his memories fall into place - the trip into town, the thieves at the tavern, and his near-death experience. Pins and needles in his arm soon draw his attention.

_Omera._

His heart stutters as his eyes fall over her sleeping angelic form, bathed in golden morning light filtering through the room's slatted shutters. A numb arm is a small price to pay to have her so near. And although he can't quite feel it, he notices her hand remains wrapped around his. His quivering heart is full to the absolute brim.

Her soft hair blankets over his arm and over most of her face _._ Before he thinks better of it, he reaches with his free hand to sweep the flowing locks from her peaceful face. 

_Mesh'la._

His breath catches, trapped by his swollen heart.

She stirs and eyes flutter open.

\--------------------

"Mando?" she straightens, eyes squinted as she rubs a hand over her neck with a grimace, nursing a kink caused by sleeping stooped from the chair onto the exam bed. 

"Hmmm?" he hums.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, voice rough from sleep. She studies the steady fall and rise of his chest - he's breathing normally.

"Better," he replies, voice endearingly husky and visor intensely studying her, glimmering in the amber light. 

She smiles, and then glances at the bandaged injury upon his side, visible through the sliced-open flightsuit. 

"I'm going to check your wound and change your dressing if that's ok," she looks to him, and he nods his permission, helmet glinting in the soft light. She lifts the bandage and takes note that his skin pallor looks healthy - there's no redness or other signs of infection. It had weeped a little onto the gauze, but the stitches look great. 

"Thank you," he shifts to look down at her and she meets his gaze. "Thank you for staying with me," he says, voice rough and achingly genuine, stirring feelings in her stomach.

She feels every centimeter of his tender gaze despite the stoic facade of the visor and her cheeks warm. 

"Of course," she nods, feeling nightmoths within her chest flurry madly. She returns to check on his wound through the cut in his flightsuit, maintaining as much modesty for him as she can. But it's more skin than she's ever seen on him. _He's so human...and warm..._

"Everything ok?" his husky voice breaks doesn't do much to break her less-than-innocent thoughts.

She blushes, reeling in her wild pulse and clearing her throat.

"Yes, you look good...I-I mean _it_ looks good - your wound," her skin flushes with extreme embarrassment from her flubbed words and she averts her gaze from his helmet. "I'm going to grab some supplies to redress it."

She turns, cursing internally at how much of a fool she must seem. She just hopes he isn't offended by her lack of self-restraint.

\---------------------

He watches with drunken-vision as she gets up and washes her hands in a basin and dries them before grabbing extra supplies from the shelves.

 _She seems so at ease with this - his wound._ He ponders her blaster skills again, making up a story in his dizzy head.

"You were a medic," he blurts, suddenly feeling foolish for making an assumption and talking out of the blue. His filter is still definitely down.

"Close," she turns around, smiling with supplies. She sets them on the bedside table, arranging them as she pleases. "Nurse during the Rebellion. I worked with children mostly, but also wounded soldiers...well, many were arguably still kids - not even twenty."

Her stare goes glossy and more distant than a parsec for a moment, and he can't help but recognize she's reliving some better-left-forgotten memories. He wants to comfort her, feeling horrible for bringing up the subject. He reaches for her hand resting on the table, taking it in his. She looks down at the touch and then at his helmet, tears brimming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she lifts her freehand, wiping away the saltiness with the back of her wrist. She chuckles with embarrassment, "Here I'm getting emotional and you're the one who's actually hurt."

"Some scars are unseen," he speaks from experience, gently running his thumb along the back of her hand, and desperately wanting to take all burden from her soul, but not sure how or if he can.

She nods, taking a deep breath and composing herself.

"Well, let's get this bandaged for you," she squeezes then withdraws her hand from his. She carefully removes the adhesive of the old dressing. He feels her warm, delicate hands apply some kind of paste over the stitches. It feels soothing as it tingles pleasantly.

"We don't have bacta, but the antibiotic salve the doctor makes is the best we have," she smiles. 

He suddenly feels a bit guilty for using up their precious medical resources - he should have been more careful during the robbery intervention. 

She gently lays the gauze over his skin and begins taping it in place.

"All done," she announces.

"Thank you," he stares at her, endlessly grateful and in awe of her grace as she cleans up the excess and old dressing debris. 

She smiles, "Thank you for saving the town a great loss."

He wants to help more, feeling he's sat idly for too long. He needs to get up...and back to the kid.

\------------------

She catches movement from the corner of her eye as she rinses her hands again. Turning, she finds him sitting up on the edge of the exam bed, but teetering.

"Hey easy," she leaps over to steady him, holding onto his shoulders to support him.

"Sat up too quick," he exhales.

She feels his warm breath escape down his helmet. 

"I'm good now," his labored voice tries to reassure.

She slowly releases him as he steadies himself, his gloved hands grasping the exam bed's edge. But she's not entirely convinced with his word given the subtle loll of his helmet and a worry furrows her brow. 

She gently reaches for the break between his glove and sleeve to take his pulse. He shifts his weight from that arm and concedes it to her without hesitation. His skin is warm, but not feverish, and his pulse is much stronger and quicker than last night - she supposes an improvement. She's just so very ecstatic he's alive and with her. She doesn't know what she'd have done if things had turned out differently. She looks up to his visor, feeling her face heat under his stoic, hidden gaze and his pulse quicken beneath her fingertips. 

"Do I pass?" he tilts his head in good humor, or partial delirium - probably a bit of both she decides.

She puffs an amused laugh, releasing his wrist and shaking her head at his little joke, which she mostly finds funny because it came from him.

"You need to stay hydrated to flush out the residual toxin. It'll help with your lightheadedness. I'll make tea," she pats his cuisse, blushing again.

\---------------

He feels her touch echo through the armor on his thigh, sending his shivers up his spine and spiking his blood with yearning for more. 

_The poison's lingering after-effects are really getting to him._

He closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath to quell his uncharacteristically greedy heart. She's everything he's ever wanted. 

He loves her - it's the only feeling that is clear in his currently cloudy state of mind. 

After a few more breaths, his desire is dampened to a bearable level, and he opens his eyes again. Swimming vision and murky thoughts remind him he’s definitely still on the mend and should rest. 

"Thank you," he manages as he watches her start the fire in the wood-burning stove in the corner. 

She smiles and nods politely as she always does. 

_Manda, she is mesh'la_ , his thoughts steer once again to her and her warmth and kindness. The feeling of her fingertips linger on his wrist. He takes another deep breath and averts his gaze.

"Are you feeling ok?" she asks, drawing his eyes again. She shuts the stove door and rises up to face him.

"Yeah, think so," he does his best to sell it. 

"Are you still lightheaded?" her eyes widen with concern.

"A little," he murmurs. He's no longer certain which has more to do with his dizziness: The residual poison in his veins or her intoxicating beauty and kindness.

"Maybe I should get the doctor," she turns to the doorway.

"No, I'm feeling better," he encourages.

She stops and looks at him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" she holds up her hand.

"Three," he thinks, but maybe there were only two...

"Ok, good. Where are we?" she asks next, stepping closer.

"Town," he sighs.

"What planet?" she continues, standing now right in front of him.

"Sorgan," he replies, knowing she's just checking his memory. 

Her brow furrows - she's obviously not entirely convinced.

"Really, I'm feeling fine," he reaches out to her and gently grabs her hand, gazing up into her smokey brown eyes. He feels grounded, considerably less dizzy even as his heart makes itself known in his beskarless chest. 

Her furrowed brow dissolves into a smile as warm as the fire that crackles in the stove and her eyes catch the sunrise's light like a _meshurok_ [gemstone], each facet promising a memory to be made, a future - one he's always wanted. He wonders if she wants it too.

Soon the kettle whistles and, although he doesn't want to, he releases her hand so she can tend the boiling water. She gives him another soft look before walking over to the stove. The whistling stops as she removes the kettle. She then fusses over some dried leaves and sets them inside to brew.

He can already smell the terran spice through the helmet's filter - unmistakably the same special herbal tea she'd made for him before. It worked a miracle on all the lingering pain in his ribs and leg from the Mudhorn. He just hopes it also clears his disequilibrium.

"I'll let it steep for a few moments," she smiles and gathers a mug and a ration bar from the cabinet. "I think tea and some food will do you good," she says. 

She grabs his cuirass from another work table and carries it to him with care. 

"Thank you," he reaches and accepts it. No one has ever helped him with his armor since he was a foundling. 

He sets the cuirass next to him on the exam bed and fastens his flak vest closed. He then attaches the beskar over his chest once more, repositioning his bandolier, feeling just a little less vulnerable around her.

He looks up and finds her watching with curious eyes but they flit away to the ground in an instant.

"I think the tea's done," she goes over and then pours a large clay mugful. She grabs the ration bar and tea, bringing it to him. He thinks of all the meals she's served him and how well he's been eating.

"This is very kind of you," he grasps the mug and the ration she offers.

"Sorry, I could get you something from the tavern if you prefer something more...flavorful," she grimaces at the bar.

"This is perfect," he nods, ever thankful for any sustenance.

She smiles, "I'll stand just outside so no one comes in." 

He nods, incredibly grateful as she turns. But a lonely and human part of him wants her to stay. Until her, he's never felt so conflicted with his Creed.

"Thank you," he replies instead, reciting _This is The Way._

She turns back to him for a moment, smiling and then closes the door covering behind her. He can hear her shifting her weight on the floorboards outside. He sets the cup and bar beside him, and then removes his helmet. The ambient air on his face feels incredibly refreshing.

"What _is_ your favorite food?" she asks through the door covering.

He has to think for a moment, caught off-guard, but intrigued by the personal question. He takes a sip of the warm liquid as he thinks for a moment.

"Tiingilar," he replies, smiling to himself remembering the taste.

"Tiingilar - what is that?" her voice is steeped in curiosity.

"A very spicy stew, a traditional Mandalorian recipe," he chuckles. "It hurts going in and coming out." He cringes, kicking himself for describing it in such a vulgar way.

But she laughs loudly and he figures she isn't actually offended by the description.

"Kelmina makes a very spicy tuber soup - you might like it," she chuckles.

"I think I would," he smiles, imagining the elder woman eager to have someone new try her home cooking. "What about you - do you have a favorite food?"

She chuckles sending a jolt to the butterflies in his gut. "I have a sweet tooth - but berry pie is my favorite," she sheepishly admits.

He recalls the berry pie Reena had been making. He might have to obtain a slice for her if any remained - anything to make her happy, to make her smile.

"I've only ever had a meat pie," he chortles, taking a bite of the chalky, overly sweet protein bar.

"How about krill pie?" she laughs.

He chuckles, then sips his perfectly hot tea.

"I haven't, but I'd love to try it," he says lightheartedly.

"Well, I might have to make it sometime," her voice is sweet and suddenly he can't stand not seeing her.

He eats the remainder of the chalk-bar and washes it down with the rest of the herbal tea. He runs a hand through his sweat-flattened hair and slips on his helmet.

"You can come back in," he beckons her. The tea is already helping clear his foggy head.

\-----------------

"Are you sure?" she double-checks, staring at the door covering.

Suddenly, the fabric parts, revealing a steady-footed Mandalorian. Despite appearing sturdy, she instinctively reaches out to his arms to add support.

"Mando-," she gasps.

"The tea is helping," he purrs down at her, the reflective darkness peering into her soul, she feels his warmth radiating through his layers like embers of the stove burning inside. She wants to throw her arms completely around him - so thankful for him, so in-lo-...

"Looks like my patient is feeling better," Nyma's voice booms from behind her.

She releases his arms, clearing her throat, and turns to greet the town doctor.

"Nyma, good morning," she greets her stoic face that nods in return.

Nyma steps up to Mando, "You might feel weak and even lightheaded or dizzy for a few days, but the effects should eventually wear off." 

The doctor steps past and goes to gathering medical supplies in the exam room. They turn to watch her. 

"Stay hydrated, eat plenty of protein and no heavy-lifting for a couple weeks," she eyes him accusatorily. She then provides a sackful of extra medical supplies to Mando. 

The doctor turns to Omera. "Change the dressings at least once a day for a week, then leave it open to air. I also included antibiotic ointment in there. If there are any signs of infection or fever, treat with oral white willow bark tonic and switch to Tungsen root paste for added antibiotic coverage. You know where to find me if it's not healing right.

She nods, making a mental note of all the doctor has to say. 

“You’re in good hands,” Nyma eyes Mando. “Now get out of here so I can clean up for my patients today,” she grouses with dry humor. The woman always has been crass, but has a heart of gold.

"Thank you," he extends his hand and she accepts with a firm handshake. And if Omera wasn't mistaken, it caused the ever-serious woman's mouth to twitch upward ever so slightly. 

\-------------

They make their way back to the speeder, Omera keeping a close eye on his gait to ensure he's still fit for walking about.

"Hey Omera!" Reena's voice shouts.

She spots the older woman ahead and smiles. "Good morning!"

Mando and her approach the cheerful townswoman.

"We already unloaded the spotchka barrels last night - Nyma wanted to make sure it got delivered," she smiles, wiping her flour-coated palms on her apron.

Omera smiles at the kindness of the gruff doctor.

"There are a few flour sacks we set aside for your village and this," she reaches into her large apron pocket and produces a very generous-sized, pouch, holding it out to Omera. It jangles with the unmistakable sound of credits - twice the credits a spotchka delivery of this size would usually earn.

Omera's eyes widen, "This is too much." She shakes her head in disbelief.

"We want to - the town is grateful," Reena nods, reaching to close Omera's hand around the pouch. "It wasn't just credits that were spared, lives were saved. It's the least we can do." 

Reena then looks at Mando. "Thank you for your bravery."

He humbly nods.

Omera and Reena work to load the flour sacks on the speeder with Mando thoroughly sidelined from any heavy-lifting. Through Reena’s chattering, he finds out the thieves had been “taken care of”. She assures they won’t be trouble any longer. Once the flour is packed, Omera insists he stay and rest while she quickly picks up some other commodities for the village in town. 

While she's away, he decides this is his chance to snag a special something for Omera. 

\-----------

He places the gift under a blanket to keep it hidden and cool. 

"Ready to go?" her melodic voice strums his heartstrings.

He turns to catch her lovely form approaching with a few baskets filled with various food items and soap. He nods, swallowing the lovesick lump in his throat. Suddenly, he feels dizzy again.

"Time for you to get more rest," she smiles, setting her bounty in the repulsorlift.

He seats himself upon the speeder and scoots to rest his back against the blanketed rail, careful to avoid ripping his stitches. It's really a minor wound, and although he doesn't exactly like it, he knows he needs to take it easy so it doesn't grow into something worse.

She gracefully climbs aboard and starts the speeder up - it begins its slow pace down the wooded trail and away from town and back to the village.

Soon they gravitate toward each other, Omera asking him how he's feeling and leaning in close to check again on his dressing. He feels her healing touch and melts further into the backrest with a stuttered sigh. It doesn't take long before he starts feeling very sleepy, lulled by the lift's gentle gliding, warm sun, and passing trees, but most of all, Omera's nurturing presence. The combination is soothing, and the lingering effects of the poison help him succumb to the impending cloak of sleep.

His strong weight rests gradually against her, and she blushes heavily, glancing at his helm which rests forward, chin on his chest. She's a little worried at first, but soon soft, rhythmic snores escape his reflective helmet, telling her the kind Mandalorian has found some peace and it brings the warmest smile to her face and heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this chapter into 2 parts because it's growing rather long and I also don't want to make you all wait another month or longer for my lazy hide to finish the second half! So here it is! 
> 
> "Starlight on Sorgan" is partially written and might be out by the end of December! It might be the end of this series, but I'm playing with ideas for possibly more since I've already gone way outside canon at this point.
> 
> I also hope I'm not messing up Mandomera too much and this isn’t too much of a disappointment. 
> 
> As always, thank you so very much for reading and the support <3


	7. Starlight on Sorgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships grow and decisions are made.

Mando jolts, heart sprinting and eyes flicking open to dampened light and swirling figures. In a blink, he instinctively draws his blaster, finger on the trigger, aiming at the blurry movement ahead.

A gasp sounds to his left and he feels something warm shifting against his arm. His trigger finger twitches, on the ready for defense even in his murky state. 

“Mando - it’s ok. It’s just me, Omera,” her gentle voice is a guiding light in his sleep-induced disorientation made tenfold by the lingering poison coursing in his blood. 

His bleary eyes adjust beneath the visor to find Omera next to him, her beautiful, but worried face in the dusk light. He gathers his bearings - they’re on the speeder and he judges it's likely late-evening based on the fading sunlight in the dark pines.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he lowers his weapon, which hadn’t been pointed at her, but if he’d done something out of instinct...there’s nothing he could have done to stop it. His chest painfully constricts then heaves at the thought of how close he’d come to firing. 

_ But if she’d have been in the way… _

Tears threaten to overflow and purge from him the horrific thought - emotions are high and the toxin makes them undeniable. 

“It’s ok - I nodded off. I think I startled you,” her chest moves heavily.

He scared her. 

He had  _ drawn _ his weapon, ready to shoot at  _ anything _ .

His own chest heaves faster - he cannot get enough breath. The beskar is suddenly heavier and tighter than it has ever been. He almost did the unthinkable. His lungs and eyes burn as he falls into a suffocating blackhole of self-mistrust and loathing.

She leans in closer.

“Breathe,” she hums, gathering him in her arms and he tenses for a moment. "Breathe."

The gentle swell of her chest against him soon crumbles the fragile walls holding back tears. They fall from his eyes and smear his already blurry vision. His chest sputters for breath.

"I-I'm sorry," his voice breaks, trying his best to contain his distress from her, but what little resolve he has is eroded by the poison.

"It's ok," she hushes, holding him more tightly. "Just breathe. I'm ok, you're ok."

He takes a deep breath, feeling both the sting of salty tears in his eyes and pull of taut stitches along his ribs. Lightheadedness still fogs his head from the toxin entrenched in his veins. He draws another deep, measured breath, inhaling until the sharp reminder of yesterday twinges his side. But it's soon dulled by her loving embrace, beckoning him to fade into her - to let go. He buries his helmet into her shoulder, her hair sweeping over the metal like a blanket.

"It's ok," she repeats softly but surely, running a comforting hand over his back where his cape has parted. He can't believe how forgiving she is - he can't believe he's in her arms. He can't believe he's breaking down in front of her like this.

_ What in Manda had he done to deserve such blind kindness? _

And she still kept near after he'd nearly drawn his weapon on her. 

He could have shot her. 

But he didn’t. 

She’s safe and alive.

With steady breaths and her reassuring warmth, his overwhelmed heart gradually slows and equilibrium returns. Her presence nourishes his soul, enveloping him like the pine-imbued air around them - he raises his head from her shoulder to look upon her beautiful face.

_ Mesh’la [beautiful], cyare [beloved], jate’kara [destiny], yaim [home], morut [haven], dral [strong]  _ \- all these words burst to the forefront of his mind - she inspires all of them.

The way she looks at him, it’s as though she promises to forgive him for everything he's ever done and everything he will ever do. The unwavering faith and trust glimmering in her eyes is enough to bring tears again to his own.

She holds him closer in her strong arms - her breathing gives him life. He’s never felt safer or closer to peace than now. 

\-----------------------------

Before long, the speeder breaks through to the clearing where the village awaits around a vibrant bonfire. They adjust their cozy position to something less suggestive now that the eyes of others are upon them. However, their shoulders still touch and they hold hands.

They're soon spotted as people point and start making their way over, snaking through the ponds. 

Winta is quick to take the lead with the kid faithfully in her arms.

“Looks like they’re happy to see us,” Omera smiles. Mando feels happiness sting his eyes seeing the two kids joyfully approach.

Just as they near the outer ponds, she shuts off the repulsorlift and Winta closes in. 

“Momma!” Winta shouts, hurrying over to the edge of the speeder. “Momma are you ok? We got the message yesterday late last night.”

“I’m just fine,” she smiles at her worried daughter, then looks at Mando. 

Winta looks at him and her eyes widen in awe or shock.

“Boo-ap,” the little one coos at Mando from the girl's arms.

“Hey kid,” he nods at the eager little one, intent on seeing him based on the reaching claws. Winta hands him over.

“Are you ok?” the girl asks, looking down at his gashed flightsuit.

“Thanks to your mother and the doctor,” he nods, maneuvering carefully down from the speeder. “Thank you for watching him," he says kindly, holding the little one closer to him as he clutches onto the cowl.

Her smile beams bright in the twilight - a smile very much like her mother’s.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” she replies, and suddenly she throws her arms around his waist, her head against his cuirass. She makes his heart soften in a way only the child had ever managed. 

He doesn't know what to say, and instead pats her back with his free hand. He might not have the words, but he feels that if anything or anyone tried to harm either of the kids currently clinging to him, he'd snuff out the threat in a heartbeat.

Winta breaks the hug and goes to join her mother's side - Omera's gaze nearly penetrates his beskar with how tender she smiles at him.

He would do anything for them.

\--------------

Caben emerges through the group, "Mando, I'm so sorry," he rapidly apologizes for having them make the delivery in his place to begin with. 

"It's not your fault. Things could have turned out differently for the town if I hadn't been there," he reassures the man who wrings his teal hat in his hands. He knows he feels guilty, but he shouldn't. 

"Thank you," Caben nods and turns to help unpack the speeder.

The village collaboratively unpacks the goods from the repulsorlift. He feels useless as the others insist he rest and refuse to let him help carry anything. 

Cara nods and suggestively winks at him as she tosses a large flour sack over her shoulder to bring back to the commonhouse. His pulse jumps because he knows exactly what the wink was for... _ how did she know? _

The woman who holds his heart steps away from her conversation and next to him.

“Here, you earned this,” Omera offers him half of the credits. He can't believe it. "Everyone agrees." 

The villagers near nod and smile in acknowledgement. He's in awe at the gesture.

"I cannot accept," he closes her hand around the coins. "If anything, the village has earned it and more for hosting us."

She looks into his eyes, then smiles and nods, making his knees weak. "We can never thank you enough." 

Soon she's busy again with Winta and fronting a bunch of questions that everyone knows are better answered by her rather than overwhelming their Mandalorian guest. 

He takes advantage of the distraction and claims the gift he bought for Omera along with the bag of medical supplies and slips away from the main hustle to retreat to the barn for the night.

\--------------

From the corner of her eye, Omera catches Mando walking away. She glances over, seeing the kid propped over his shoulder and smiles. Kelmina had already dropped off some food in the barn for them, so they should be set for the evening. 

Winta and Omera eventually retreat back to their hut after she finishes catching up with everyone and relaying the harrowing tale and heroism of the Mandalorian. He has taken residence not only in their barn, but also in their hearts, and especially hers. 

\-------------

"I'm ok kid," he tries his best to hide the wound from him, but the little one is like a shark and can smell blood a parsec away.

He fusses and tries to reach with little claws to get at the wound. He recalls the kid tried this with his gash on Arvala-7, but still isn't sure exactly what he's doing. 

Mando grasps his searching hands gently. "I'm ok," he tries to reason with the worried kid. "It's ok."

The kid looks at him with large worried eyes, glistening in the lantern's light. He wants to get at the wound, that much is certain. 

"I promise I'm ok," he hushes, holding the kid close to his chest but away from the wound. The beskar seemingly melts away from his heart. "I'm ok." He breathes deeply, trying not to flinch when the stitches catch his ribs.

The child coos, burrowing closer into his cowl, as if he'll never let go. Mando feels his heart beating faster knowing just how much the little one has grown attached to him. The responsibility of caring for the little life so very reliant upon his own is enough to make him reel, but he knows he will find a way. He holds the child close, looking down to find large, sorrowful eyes looking back up at him. 

"It's ok kid," he soothes, cradling his small, precious head in his hand.

The little one rests back against his chest and Mando holds him, his small form protected in his arms. He knows he wants to give the best life he can afford to the little one. His heart aches at making him worried for even a moment.

The child finally settles down, falling asleep against him. He sets him in his crib, marveling at the sweet child that has completely changed his life. He wouldn't have it any other way. 

He suddenly thinks of the woman who has also changed his life and his heartbeat quickens. He plans on delivering the gift after he cleans up and eats the generous meal left by the village on the chair.

\-----------

"Momma, there's something for us on the porch!" Winta's excited and smiling voice wakes her.

Morning is new judging by the brassy rays that seep through the woven walls. 

She rubs the sleep from her eyes. 

Winta barges through her cracked door. "Morning momma! Can I bring it in?" her wild-haired daughter practically jumps up and down.

"Morning, my love. What is it?" she smiles, curiosity now taking hold of her as she slips from under the covers.

"Dunno, a package with our names on it," she grins, eyes darting back to the front porch.

"Go ahead," she smiles, laughing as Winta bolts to collect the gift. 

She brings the waxpaper-wrapped package inside and sets it on the dining table. Omera joins her side.

"Can I open it?" the excited girl chirps.

"Let's read the note first," she smiles, giggling at her daughter's enthusiasm. She reaches to the scrap of folded paper with very rough handwriting that she didn't recognize tucked under the twine. It's addressed to her and Winta. 

She opens the note:

_ Thank you again.  _

_ -Mando _

_ (PS. Someone told me you like pie.) _

Omera blushes and smiles widely, feeling her heart flickering like a candle who's flame has just been rekindled. Of course it was  _ his _ handwriting, rough yet endearing in its genuineness. It was like a fingerprint, beautiful and unique to him.

"Who's it from?" Winta tries to peek at the note her mother now holds lovingly to her chest.

"Mando," she grins at her daughter.

Her eyes glow with excitement. "Cool! Can I open it?" she bounces on her tippy toes, hands on the table.

Omera nods.

Winta squeaks and makes quick work of untying the twine and opening the paper. They're greeted by half of the delicious fresh berry pie Reena had baked during their visit into town, its sweet aroma immediately hitting her nose and pricking her tastebuds. Omera beams from his extremely sweet gesture and how he'd obviously taken note of their conversation of favorite foods.

"Woah, I love pie! Mando is the best!" Winta's eyes grow wide as krill baskets at the sight of the treat. "Can I have some?"

"Of course," she smiles, "How about we spoil our breakfast?" she looks at her daughter.

Winta nods fervently and giggles. "I'll grab some forks!" she rushes to the kitchen drawers.

Mando's generosity makes Omera feel so many things she hasn't felt in the longest time - not since her husband. She's beginning to think that it's ok to feel this way again - to feel special and cherished by another. Nothing could compare. She feels her heart falling for him, rushing like the nearby rivers ever closer toward his own, and she can no longer deny it.

_ \-- _ \--------------

"Knock knock."

Her gentle voice pulls his attention from cleaning his weapons. He's still been busy working on maintenancing the numerous used in the Klatooinian battle. 

"Good morning. Come in," his steady heart falters as she enters, sunlight catching her long, dark hair, glowing auburn on its edges. The child gives a welcoming coo from his crib.

"Good morning," she smiles at the large-eyed little one. She then turns to Mando, "Thank you for the gift - that was incredibly kind of you. It was delicious." A bright grin shines on her face - his new favorite sight and to think he was the reason for it makes his heart soar.

"The least I could do," he steps toward her, noticing a smaller waxpaper package and mug of tea in her hands.

"I saved a piece for you and your boy," she chuckles, "Winta would founder herself on it if it stays in our kitchen - to be honest, I might too. I made you some more herbal tea as well." She offers the pie and healing drink.

"That's very kind of you," he nods, taking the pie and steaming mug, his glove brushing against her hand.

The kid purrs his approval of that decision too, sniffing the air.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, as he sets the refreshments on the windowsill for later.

"Much better this morning - less dizzy," he turns and gazes upon her. He suddenly feels lightheaded again.

"Can I help with your dressing?" she gestures to his side.

His pulse jumps.

"Sure," he takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. 

A few small knocks on the doorframe draw their attention.

"Morning, Mr. Mandalorian," Winta's polite voice greets him. She then looks at her mother for permission, who nods. The girl's bright eyes fall back to Mando before scanning over to the kid, "Can I play with him?" 

He can't help the smile that blooms under his helmet. "Yes, but he hasn't eaten yet."

"I'll feed him!" Winta's eyes gleam and she enters the barn fully.

Mando plucks the kid from his crib and hands him to the enthusiastic girl.

"Thank you!" she chirps and the kid coos contentedly in her arms. "Let's go get breakfast!" she says to him as they hurriedly exit the barn.

"Thank you," Omera smiles fondly. "She really loves watching him."

"She does a good job," his lips tug upward under his helmet again, briefly thinking how she's like a big sister to the little womp rat. He goes to grab the supplies the town doctor had provided from where he'd set them atop of the spotchka barrel and hands them to Omera. "Should I lie down?" 

"Whatever is most comfortable for you," she smiles warmly.

Mando goes over to the bed and lays on his back, arm behind his helmet to provide her access to his wounded ribs. Omera pulls up a chair next to him and sets out the dressing and antibiotic paste.

His heart thumps briskly against his beskar at her proximity and direct attention. He tries to meter his breathing as her gentle fingertips carefully remove the old bandage.

"You ripped a couple stitches," she hisses.

_ He probably shouldn't have lifted that weapon crate this morning, even if it had been mostly empty... _

"I'm going to remove them so they don't become embedded," she warns.

"Ok," he replies.

"You'll feel a little pinch," she warns as she quickly plucks the floating thread loops. He barely feels a thing. "It still looks ok, but try to take it easy. You needn't rip more."

He watches her furrowed brow as she applies the cool herbal ointment.  _ She's so focused and mesh'la. _

She lays the fresh gauze over the wound and tears strips of tape to seal it on each edge. He's never been taken care of like this before. It truly beats the cauterizer by a parsec. And the fact that it's her, so close and gentle and caring, makes his pulse stutter.

"Done," she smiles, looking into his visor, reaching his eyes.

"Thank you," he gazes into her eyes from his supine position.  _ She's so mesh'la. _

She smiles, a rosy tinge splays on her lovely cheeks. "You're welcome. But I mean it when I say to take it easy," her eyes are determined and serious.

He nods.

"I'll leave so you can eat," she smiles, gathering the supplies and lifting from the chair.

He watches as she sets the bag of medical supplies back atop the spotchka barrel. She turns just as she reaches the doorway, giving a soft, sweet smile that makes his blood flow fast and heavy.

"I'll see you tonight to dress it again," she says before slipping into the bright blue day. 

His heart once again thumps at the thought of seeing her later on.

\-----------

"Knock knock," she softly announces, holding third meal. Winta had been busy with the kid today and she could see he was already fast asleep with a full belly in his crib.

"Please, come in," he replies, setting down a blaster and oiled cloth.

She steps in and sets his meal on the chair. He sees she's brought the herbal tea again.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," he replies, stepping close to her. 

She turns and reaches to his ribs where the tear had been. "You fixed your suit." 

He hums his acknowledgment. "No heavy lifting, have time on my hands."

"Would you like me to still change the dressing?" 

His skin runs hot at the question. He hadn't thought about the implication for repairing the tear in his flightsuit - there's no longer a convenient access point. 

Before he overthinks the situation, he unhinges his cuirass, setting it on the table. He works on his pauldrons, then vambraces, bandolier and cape. He undoes the flak vest and then undoes the upper flightsuit, exposing his bare torso. He'll of course keep his helmet on, but he still felt incredibly vulnerable. Yet something about her made him feel so safe.

"Are you sure?" she asks timidly.

He turns and finds Omera with her back facing him. She's uncertain.

"I-It's ok - you can look," his voice breaks slightly as his heart leaps against his sternum as if trying to break through and reach her. 

\-------------

Omera's eyes dance wildly over the nearly countless raised scars upon his torso - most are small and some are quite large, speaking of significant injury. Sure she had known he lived a rough life, but nothing prepared her for this - seeing the physical evidence, proving just how much physical abuse he's endured. 

Overwhelmed, her heart absolutely aches at the sight and tears threaten her eyes.

_ Had he ever known a kind touch before her?  _ The thought settles heavy and deep on her diaphragm, making it hard to breathe. 

He walks over and lays supine, 

She grabs the medical supplies and goes to work, trying not to make this a huge deal, but she's blushing furiously, and she's pretty sure her hands are not as steady as they usually are.

His wound appears to be healing well and she quickly applies the antimicrobial paste and changes the bandage.

"Done," she announces, but she can't help as her fingers migrate from the periphery of the bandage to trace a rather large scar over his heart.

_ How did something penetrate his chestplate? _

His chest rises and falls in a fluid motion, like the gentle swell of meadow grasses in the rolling wind.

"Vibroblade," he breaks the silence.

It snaps her from her thoughts and she blushes for her lingering fingertips and for staring so long at his bare skin.

"The scar," he elaborates.

"It got through your armor?" she asks, reflexively tracing the puckered skin. 

"It was durasteel at the time - nowhere as strong as beskar," he breathes, "and the bounty was quite determined to maintain their freedom."

"How did you survive?"

He takes a deep breath, which falls a little short due to the pull of his wound.

"Barely - I was helped by a kind stranger who took me to a med center, blade still lodged," he gestures to his scar. "Lots of gasps and bacta and stitches. Another centimeter and I'd have never left that planet.”

She traces over the permanent proof of his ordeal, "I'm glad you pulled through." Her face then turns less serious. "But I have to know - did you get the bounty?" 

He huffs a stunted laugh, holding his hand over the dressing, "Extended their freedom by a few more days. The pay wasn't even worth it." 

"I need to not make you laugh," she shakes her head.

"I don't mind," he reaches her hand.

She looks at his bare hand over hers, so gentle and genuine.

"I should let you eat," she looks at the door, not wanting to pressure him any further.

\---------------------------

"Please. Stay," his words are stilted, raw. He's unsure how to tell her how he feels - how she makes him feel - so against his self-doubt, he decides to show her, guiding her hand over his chest, to his heart, and pressing her open palm against his flushed skin. 

His normally beskar-covered and stoic  _ kar'ta _ is now exposed and vulnerable, fluttering and faltering under her healing touch, desperately revealing feelings that his lips fail to tell. 

She looks down at her hand and then into his eyes.

"I - I never wanted to leave," she says softly and sweetly, a lovely blush coloring her cheeks. 

There are deeper, unbearably lonely wounds within that her kindness has started to heal. He's starting to realize that now. 

He  _ needs _ her just like Sorgan's trees need the sun, like krill need water. Her radiant light nourishes the fragile seedling of hope within his  _ kar'ta _ .

He gazes into her eyes, brimming with love and acceptance.

He guides her to lay back down and rest her head against his chest. It feels so natural, even if his blood races beneath hot skin from the intense physical contact. He quickly grows accustomed to her breath glancing over his skin and the weight of her pressed against him. Having her so close is the nearest to peace he's ever come. She has truly saved him in more ways than one.

\-------------------

"Thank you," his voice rumbles under her ear. "For helping me," his words reach far beyond the physical realm.

She burrows in closer, savoring his presence and warmth. His skin is silken and smells of the evergreen soap.

She smiles. "Thank you for trusting me."

His heart thuds quicker and she smiles knowing she's the reason. 

They both soon find peace, drifting asleep, safe together.

\--------------

"I saw you sneaking out of the barn early this morning," Cara shows no mercy.

Omera blushes hotly, grabbing the ex-rebel's arm to lead her away from the crowded ponds. She hopes no one else heard.

"Hey, don't hold out - what happened? Ya finally show him a really good time?" she waggles her eyebrows.

"Cara! No, we just slept together," she shakes her head.

The ex-rebel's eyes widen in scandal and jaw drops and Omera realizes her flubbed words.

"No! No - we just fell asleep," she lowers her voice glancing around for others that might be in earshot, "but in the same bed." Her face and ears burn from just admitting their innocent night.

"I bet that was plenty for his hard head to deal with - both of them," she winks and snorts at her double entendre.

Omera hides her embarrassed face in her hands at the lewdness, but she cannot help but chuckle at her friend.

"Omera, can you help me untangle this net?" Len shouts from the nearest pond.

"I'll let you get back to that - looks like you could use a dip in cool water anyway," the shock trooper chuckles and lightly punches her shoulder as she passes.

_ Oh heavens, I think I'm in love _ , she muses.

\---------------------

"Hey Mando," Cara comes out of nowhere and slaps him on his back, giving him a quickstart.

He sighs deeply, turning from his work of weaving more harvesting baskets - he had to keep his hands busy to keep from going stir-crazy. 

"Cara," he nods.

"I see you’re keeping busy,” she says with a teasing smirk. “So what are your plans?" she eyes him from his perch on the edge of the barn’s porch.

"What do you mean?" he tilts his head, quite confused.

"Well, do you plan to stay?" she braces her hands on her hips, glaring down at him.

"What?"

"Are you staying here on Sorgan? I just think it's something to discuss with Omera - I don't want to see either of you getting your heart broken," she lays it out clear as day.

His heart hammers hard - he doesn't know how to respond to that.  _ Why was she bringing this up? _

"Set the expectations so it's easier for moving forward - that's all I'm saying," she pats his shoulder and continues onward into the village.

_ Maybe I do need to talk with Omera,  _ he thinks to himself, suddenly very nervous.

He has a lot to consider.

\------------------

“It looks healed enough to go without dressings,” she gently rests her hand over the approximated wound. “Are you sure you’re ok with your boy staying with Winta again tonight?”

He nods, mind completely preoccupied. She’s been spending the past few nights with him - nights he won’t soon forget. And he doesn’t want them to be memories, he wants them to continue happening and never end. 

_ He must muster the courage. _

He lifts from the bed and stands next to her. 

"I believe I owe you a dance," his husky voice beckons as he steps close to her and reaches for her hand.

She smiles a smile that makes his heart nearly stop as still and stark as the stars in the night sky. 

\--------------------

"You remembered," she blushes furiously at his bare chest. 

He squeezes her hand and she smiles even more brightly, stepping the rest of the way, closing the space between them. The heat radiating from his soft, scarred skin is enough to melt her down to her marrow.

"How could I forget?" he angles his helm down to see her.

Her heart soars.

The insects outside sing their chorus and floorboards gently creak in rhythm to their swaying footsteps. She notices the minute change in his breathing and reaches to graze the periphery of the healing wound that he no doubt twinged. It seems to soothe the discomfort.

She musters the courage to ask.

"We'd like you to stay - the village is grateful," she lifts her head to look at him, his visor flickering in the candlelight.

He looks down upon her, and his chest rises in a deep breath. 

\--------------------------

She beat him to it, she beat him to the topic and he’s suddenly relieved - his chest can barely contain his happiness. He looks into her eyes, seeing his future, his way.

"We'd really like to stay," the words fall from his lips so easily and a weight lifts from his chest. 

\---------------------------

His husky voice sends happiness directly to her heart - she’s absolutely thrilled beyond belief.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she replies, curious as to what he means.

He goes over and shuts off the lantern. Only starlight lights the way and she cannot see.

“I’m here,” his voice is a little different. 

Then she realizes.

“Your helmet,” she nearly gasps.

“I’m not wearing it,” he replies coyly.

She feels his arms wrap around her and the stubble of his chin on her forehead. His warm breath glancing over her hair. She almost cannot believe what is happening, but she doesn’t want it to end.

“Can I kiss you?” his voice is raw but gentle, asking not seeking.

“Yes,” she barely whispers as her knees tremble. 

She hears him practically choke as if he wasn’t quite expecting her to say yes. She smiles, feeling him tremble as well, her hands splayed on his bare chest.

She leans up and for the first time, their noses graze. He leans in and lips, new to each other, find their way. 

**********

She holds onto him tighter, resting her head against his warm chest, never wanting to let go. His heart drums a melody into her ear as she melts further into his strong, comforting embrace. Nothing can reach her here in his arms. 

She is safe, and so is he. 

Together, they are one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be more to come, but it might be months before I have a chance. COVID is hitting hard at my hospital's ICU and I'm working really long days. Your comments give me joy and thank you all so much for reading. I hope this chapter wasn't too rushed. I needed some happiness after the rough past couple weeks. Please stay safe and healthy <3


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